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READING 


AND 


ELOCUTION: 


THEORETICAL   AND   PRACTICAL 


Br  ANNA  T.  BAND  ALL, 

(Now  Mju.  Amma  Bahdall  Dieulj 


"All  art  is  Nature  better  understood' 


IVISON,  BLAKEMAN,  TAYLOR  &  CO., 

PUBLISHERS, 

NEW   YORK   AND   CHICAGO 

1876. 


AtiMMtxi  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1869,  by 

MR&  ANNA  T.  RANDALL, 

Id  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  far  the  Northern 

District  of  New  York, 


PUUCAT:0*  OE.PT 


PREFACE. 


To  furnish  choice  selections  of  prose  and  poetry  for  School, 
Tarlor,  and  Lyceum  readings,  accompanied  by  a  comprehen 
sive  method  of  teaching  the  Art  of  Elocution,  with  its  under- 
lying principles,  is  the  design  of  this  book. 

That  it  may  be  used  with  success  in  our  public  and  private 
schools,  independently,  or  in  connection  with  any  Series  of 
Readers,  and  may  find  its  way  to  the  table  of  many  a  pri- 
vate learner,  is  the  hope  of 

THE  COMPILER. 


96 1 058 


CONTENTS 


Introdcctiow Ix 

I.  Orthoepy .  1 

1.  Tonics 1 

2.  Subtonlca    i 

8.  Atonies 2 

II.  QCALITT  OF  VOICE 2 

1.  Pure 2 

2.  Orotund 4 

8.  Pectoral 5 

4.  Guttural 6 

6.  Plaintive 8 

8.  Aspirate 7 

7.  Falsetto 7 

III.  Force 11 

1.  Degrees 11 

1.  Moderate 11 

2.  Gentle 12 

8.  Heavy 13 

4.  Crescendo 18 

5.  Diminuendo 18 

2.  Variations  or  Stress 13 

1.  Radical  >-   18 

2.  Final  -=    14 

8.  Median  -*>-    14 

4.  Thorough  CD tf 

6.  Compound  H 18 

8.  Tremuloua  ~~    18 

IV    Time 19 

1.  Movement W 

1.  Moderate  19 

2.  Quick 20 

8.  Rapid 20 

4.  81ow 20 

I.  Very  slow 21 

2.  Pause 28 

1.  Sentential 23 

t.  Rhetorical ...  28 


( 1.  Snbject  word. 


1.  8ubjecttve  <  2.  Subject  phu«e   18 

( 8.  Subject  Inverted 28 

2.  Emphatic 24 

8.  Prepositional..  ..  24 

4.  Elliptical 24 

»   Rflbctive ...  24 


PAOB 

V.  MXLODY 25 

L  Pitch  .  25 

1.  Middle  ..25 

t.  Hijrh.  ....  2« 

8,  Low..  21 

4.  Transitions .26 

1  Monotone  —  .27 

i.  Dtatone ..97 

4.  Semitone ..28 

Waves  or  Circumflex..  .  28 

ft  ewm 29 

1.  Position  of  the  han I  ...  99 

1.  Supine  29 

9.  Prone  .99 

8.  Vertical ...  29 

4,  Clenched   99 

ft.  Pointing 99 

9,  Direction ...  29 

1.   Front  ..  99 

9.  Oblique 80 

8.  Extended 80 

4  Rackw;.  ...  80 

VII     MvrnonH  n.x  SEi.r-ccLTCRB 

VIII.  MrrnoDe  rox  teaching  Reading  ....  ....  88 

1    PrinsW]  85 

9.  Programme  for  a  week's  lessons 85 

8.  Methods  for  rarlety 85 

4.  Aaalyv,  88 

IX.  Sklxctionb .  89 

The  Creeds  of  the  Bells,  Gxobob  W.  Binoat 89 

Ode  on  the  Passion*,  Collins 89* 

High  Tide,  Jean  I  no  blow 41 

Gems  from  Rcsein 44 

The  Vagabonds,  J.  T.  Tbowbbidgb 49 

A  Sea  Voyage,  Washington  Irving 52 

Bible,  John  ix. 64 

.h  of  Morris,  Waltbb  Soott 56 

. rushlp  under  Difficulties 56 

The  Front  and  Side  Doom,  O.  W.  Holmes 62 

The  Relief  of  Lucknow,  Robbet  Lowell 62 

Boy  Rritton,  Forcettue  Willson 65 

Rugle  Song,  Altbrd  Tenntson 68 

Roll  Call,  Anon 69 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  John  O.  Saxx 70 

Kvening  at  the  Farm,  J    T.  Tbowbbidgb 78 

Putting  up  Stoves 74 

Tribute  to  Water,  Gocgh 76 

Claribel's  Prayer.  Ltndb  Palmeiu. 77 

The  Skeleton  In  Armor,  Longfellow , T8 

Te  Cecilia,  Fredrrhca  Brbmeb 81 


Contents,  vh 

PAGE 

The  Face  against  the  Pane,  T.  B.  Aldrich 81 

Mother  and  Poet,  Mrs.  Browning 81 

The  Charge  of  the  Lii^ht  Brigade,  Tennyson 91 

May  Days,  Wavei:                     *e OS 

Scrooge  and  Marley,  Cu  as.  Dick  ens 00 

Passing  Away,  John  PibWOCT 97 

Sheridan's  Ride,  T.  B.  Rkad 99 

The  Night  Scene  In  Macbeth,  Sua  kspxare 101 

Short  Extracts  Webster.  Emkrs«>n  :iii«1  Holmbs 108 

The  Burning  Prairie,  Alicb  Cast 104 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Haraelin,  Robert  Brownino 106 

P:»alm  xo Ill 

T.  B.  Macaulat US 

Gaffer  Oray,  IIolcroft 114 

Anld  Robin  Gray,  Lady  Anna  Barnard 115 

Christian  Mariner's  Ilymn,  Mrs.  Solthet 116 

Scenes  from  the  Light.*  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,  John  Wilson.  118 

The  Battle,  translated  from  Schiller  by  Bulwer 121 

he  River,  Miss  Priest 123 

The  Wonderful  "On.-Ili.-s  Shay,"  O.  W.  Holmeb  124 

Warren's  Address,  Rev.  John  Pierpont 128 

A  Psalm  of  Life,  II.  W.  Longfellow 129 

TasBo's  Coronation,  Mrs.  LTemanb 180 

Death  of  the  Old  Year,  Alfred  Tenntbon 131 

Song  of  the  I                                            133 

The  Bell  of  the  Atlantic,  Lydia  H.  Sioournet 

Adam?  and  Jefferson,  Daniel  Webster 135 

Polish  War  Song,  James  G.  Perctyal 

The  Boys,  O.  W.  Holmes 138 

An  Order  for  a  Picture,  Alice  Caby 189 

reliant  of  Venice,  Sharspeare    142 

The  National  Ensign,  Anon 145 

rhe  Song  of  the  Camp 146 

People  will  Talk,  Anon 147 

■ody's  Darling.  War  Lyrics  of  thb  South 148 

Z.nohia  |  Ambition.  William  Warb 180 

Portia's  Speech  on  Mercy,  Suakjpbarb 151 

The  Bells,  Edgar  A.  Pob 159 

Romeo  and  Juliet  (Balcony  Scene),  Shakbpearb 155 

lack!  her  Goose  for  Grown  Peoplb .160 

Barbara  Frietchie.  Whittier                          ir.i 

. .  168 

The  Etotf                           'n  B   OWBM                                              165 

Prom  I vanhoe,  Walter  Scott ..167 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  Washington  Irttno 170 

Are  the  Children  at  Home,  Atlantic  Month iv                                 ...  174 

Scene  from  the  "  S.h.x.l  for  Scandal,"  Sur.i..                                       170 

v  and  In. lep.-r..!rnce.  ANON ...  181 

Mary  Maioney's  I                     Philadelphia  Bcllktix  181 


CONTE* 

rmh 

The  Ballad  of  Baulo  Boll.  Thorab  Bailxt  Aldrich 184 

The  Irish  Wom»u*«  Letter,  Axon  187 

From  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  Algernon  Chas.  Swixbcrn 189 

Darius  Qrcen  and  his  Flying  Machine,  J.  T.  Trowbridge 190 

No8ect  in  Hesren,  Mrs.  Cleyelaxd..  198 

Poetry,  Pbrcit al 901 

Wool  Gathering  and  Mouse  Hunting,  Gail  Hamilton  . . .  90S 

A  Legend  of  Bregenx,  Adelaide  Procter.  ...  907 

The  Grandmother's  Apology.  Txxxtson  919 

What  is  Glory,  What  is  Fame  f  Motherwell  914 

The  Progress  of  Poetry,  Grat  .  915 

From  the  Toilers  of  the  Sea,  Victor  Hugo.  . .  917 

The  Singer,  Florence  Per  999 

Dannecker,  Mrs.  J axesox  .  994 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Lannfal,  J.  R.  Lowe:  :  -  998 

Pan,  Mrs.  Browxtxg 999 

Foouteps  on  the  Other  Side  .  991 

Little  Noll.  DicxExa  .  984 

The  Auction  Extraordinary,  Davidson  .  .  998 

The  Coquette,  Saxe  .  998 

The  New  Tear,  Baser .988 

Marion  Moore,  J  axes  G.  Clark  . .  .989 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne,  Robert  Socthet,  1798 940 

Thank  God  I  there's  still  a  Vaacuard,  Mas.  n.  K.  G.  A I  949 

Through  Death  to  Life,  Uabbt  UAauAioii  948 

Minnie  an'  Me 944 

My  Darling's  Shoes 948 

Unwritten  Music,  Willis..  948 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus,  Longfellow 948 

God,  Dersbatin  950 

Aunt  Kindly,  Theodore  Parker 258 

The  Great  Bell  Roland,  Theodore  Tiltox 255 

The  Young  Gray  Head,  Caroline  Axxr  Soctht . .  257 

The  Sullote  Mother,  Hexaxs 260 

Sandalphon,  Longfellow 202 

The  Soldier's  Reprieve 263 

The  Cynic,  H.  W.  Beechbr 267 

The  Drummer's  Bride 268 

The  Isle  of  Long  Ago,  B.  F.  Taylor 269 

Excelsior,  Longfellow 270 

Poor  Little  Jim 972 

The  Dawn  of  Redemption,  Jas.  G.  Clark 273 

The  Bell,  B.  F.  Taylor 274 

Declaration  of  Independence 276 

The  Burial  of  Moses 279 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  Albx.  Pope 282 

From  the  Honeymoon,  John  Tobih 282 

When,  How,  and  Why,  Grace  Brown 287 

The  Inchcape  Rock,  Robert  Socthet 288 


Contents.  a 

■MB, 

Horat iu»,  M acaulat 190 

The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  Hood 197 

Athena,  the  Queen  of  the  Air,  Rubkin 800 

The  Veto  Power,  Henry  Clat 801 

Marco  Bozzarix,  Halleck 80S 

The  Teetotal  Mill 800 

"Little  BaaaftB*1 800 

Lady  Clare,  Tenntbon 810 

The  Child  on  the  Judgment  Seat,  Bj  the  Author  of  the  "  Cotta 

Familt" 818 

Wanted,  a  Minister'*  Wife,  X.  Y.  Z 815 

Maist  Onle  Day,  Timothy  Swam 817 

The  Tru«!  T.-acher,  Rollajjd 818 

New  Year's  Eve 818 

Gabriel  Grub,  Dickens 821 

Dora,  Tenntbon 329 

Revelations*  of  Wall  Street,  Richard  B.  Kimball 884 

The  Romance  and  Reality  of  the  Law,  L.  J.  Bioklow 88P 

Grannie's  Tru*t 840 

The  Telegram,  Sarah  E.  Hknmiaw 841 

The  Swan's  Nest,  Mrs.  Browning 842 

The  Main  Truck,  or  a  Leap  for  Life,  G.  P.  Morris 845 

Prom  Rose  Clark,  Fanny  Fern 848 

From  the  American  Note  Book,  Hawthorne 848 

Invocation  to  Light,  Mrs.  S.  H.  De  Erot *t 851 

Richelieu.  Bulwer 3.V5 

uh  Lady  of  the  Old  School,  Mary  Ferrier 809 

Break,  Break,  Break,  Tennyson 878 

What  Ib  Life.  John  Clare 873 

Remarks  on  Reading.  Gibbon 874 

Scene  from  Virginias,  Jakes  Sheridan  Enowles 870 

From  the  Dodge  Club,  or  Italy  in  MDCCCLIX,  James  De  Millb 889 

Picture*  of  Swiss  8cenery  and  of  the  City  of  Venice,  Disraeli 894 

Joan  of  Arc.  Tuos.  De  Quincet 890 

Death  and  Bleep,  Shelley  897 

Death  of  Amelia  Wentworth,  Bryan  W.  Procter 896 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella,  Chattkrtoh 408 

Death  of  Long  Tom  Coffin,  Cooper 405 

The  Character  of  FalsUfl",  IIazlitt .407 

The  Raven,  Pob 409 

Death  of  Gawtrey,  Bdxwkr 419 

Jeanle  Morrison,  Motherwell 414 

Fading  —  Dying.  Ellen  Schknck 417 

Sketches  of  Authors 419 


ALPHABETICAL  LIST  OF  AUTHOIto. 


TABU. 

Aldrich,  T.  B 184,  186 

Arey,  Mrs.  II.  E.  O 243 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne 115 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward .88 

.  Ethel  L 7 

w,  L.  J 838 

Bremer,  Fr.-derika 88 

Brown,  Grace 2*7 

Browning,  Klizabeth  B 88,  283,  843 

Browning,  Robert 106 

Buhver,  Edward  L 868,  412 

Campbell,  Thomas 133 

Cary.  Alice Mi 

(  hat  t  erton,  Thomas 403 

Clare,  John 

(lark,  James  O 339,  378 

Cleveland,  Mrs 189 

Collins,  William 89 

Davidson,  Lncrctia 889 

l)e  Kroyft.  H.len  S 

De  Mille,  Jnmes 3f<2 

I)e  Quincey,  Thomas 

Derzhavin  360 

Dickens,  Charles 94,  234,  821 

Disraeli,  Benjamin 3TM 

Eager,  Cora  M 238 

Fanny ..846 

Ferrier.  Mary SCO 

Qibbon,  Edward 874 

..  -Ii'lm  B 

Gray,  Thomas 216 

Hall.-ck,  Fitz-tircene 808 

Hamilton,  Gail 306 

orno. Nathaniel .  848 

Hazlitt,  William 407 

Uda 130,  360 

i  rah  E 841 



nolmes,  Ol.  ...  IK  188 

Hood,  Thomas 397 

60,  217 

Ingelow,  Joan —  41 

..  62.  170 
Jameson.  Mrs.  Anna. . .  •    314 


xii  List  of  Authors, 

TAG*. 

Jefferson,  Thomas 274 

Kimball,  Klchard  ft  ...834 

Knowles,  James  8.  ........  878 

low,  Henry  W 73.  189,  848,  888,  870 

Lowell,  James  R. 886 

Low.  ]|,  Uobert  ... 

Macaulay,  Thomas  B 1 18,  898 

Miller,  Rct.  W.  E..  848 

Morris,  George  P.  ...845 

Motherwell,  William 214,  414 

Palmer.  Lynde 

Parker,  Theodore 858 

Pcrclvsl,  James  O.  1ST,  801 

Percy,  Florence....  888 

Plerpont,  Iter.  John 97,  128 

Poc.BdgarA  158,409 

Pope.  Alexander. . .  888 

....  £M 

Procter,  AdeUlde . .  807 

Procter,  Bryan  W. .  898 

Proctor,  Bdna  58 

Read,  Thomas  B ...    99 

Rollend ....  81b 

48,  800 

70,  238 

Schenck,  Ellen 417 

Schiller  ...   121 

Scott,  Walter  58,  107 

Shakspeare,  William 101,  142,  151,  185 

.  Percy    Bypebe 397 

Stgourney,  Ly-ia  H 134 

Sonthey,  Caroline  A 

Southey.  Robed      240,  288 

8 wan.  Timothy 317 

rn  Algernon  C 189 

Bayard Ml 

Benjamin  F 2C9,  274 

MB,  Alfred 58,  91,  131,  212,  810,329,  373 

Tilton,  Theodore 255 

Tobin,  John 282 

Trowbridge,  J.  T 49,  191 

Ware,  William  W 150 

r,  Daniel M5 

Whittier.  John  G 161 

Willis,  Nathaniel  P 246 

WilUon.  Forceythe 86 

Wilson.  John 118 

Anonymons,  69.  93, 145, 147, 148, 160, 163,  174, 181, 183,  187,  233,  244,  246,  268,  272 

279.  306,  308,  312,  315,  318,  34C 


INTRODUCTION. 


Elocution  is  the  art  of  expressing  thought  by  speech. 

Instruction  in  this  branch  properly  begins  with  vocal  cul 
ture,  and  we  find  that  systematic  training  and  rigid  practice 
develop  the  voice,  and  make  it  strong,  flexible  and  melo- 
dious; just  as  athletic  exercises  give  strength  and  pliability 
of  muscle  and  grace  of  movement. 

The  pugilist  undergoes  the  most  severe  training  for  weeks 
and  months  to  prepare  himself  for  a  contest  of  strength. 
And  so,  in  ancient  times,  the  gladiator  exercised  his  muscles 
until  the  "strength  of  brass  was  in  his  toughened  sinews," 
and  he  could  rend  the  lion  as  if  it  were  a  kid.  And  that  old 
oratorical  gladiator,  Demosthenes,  practiced  vocal  gymnastics 
by  the  roaring  sea,  and  left  no  means  untried  to  remedy  de- 
fects of  voice  and  manner.  Cicero  studied  oratory  for  thirty 
years,  and  traveled  all  over  Asia  to  hear  models  of  eloquence 
and  to  gain  instruction. 

Curran,  stuttering  Jack  Curran,  cultivated  his  voice  so 
industriously  that  he  not  only  overcame  the  great  defect,  but 
was  actually  noted  for  the  clearness  and  perfection  of  his 
articulation.  He  practiced  before  a  mirror,  and  debated 
questions  as  if  he  were  in  a  lyceum. 

But  the  development  of  the  voice  is  only  the  beginning  of 
the  work.  The  student  must  be  trained  in  the  great  school 
of  nature  He  must  listen  to  her  voice  as  she  speaks  in  her 
children,  and  thus  gather  models  for  imitation.  Rosa  Bon- 
heur  has  the  unmistakable  inspiration  of  genius,  but  she 
studied  the  physiology  and  characteristics  of  animals  long 
and  faithfully  before  she  was  able  to  paint  her  sheep  and 
oxen  with   such  life-like  fidelity.     Garrick's  acting  was  so 


natural  that  the  countryman  who  visited  the  theater,  fur  the 
first  time,  and  saw  him  in  Hamlet,  said,  "  if  that  little  man  is 
not  frightened,  I  never  saw  a  man  frightened  in  my  life;  why, 
he  acts  just  as  I  would  if  I  were  down  there  with  a  ghost" 

Booth,  in  Richelieu,  does  not  seem  to  be  acting  the  char- 
acter. The  bowed  figure,  the  wrinkles  and  the  voice  of  age 
are  there,  and  you  can  scarcely  believe  he  is  not  the  Car- 
dinal 

And  more  wonderful  still,  Ristori,  by  the  magic  power  of 
voice,  her  expressive  face  and  her  natural  gesture,  moves  an 
audience  to  laughter  or  to  tears  at  will,  and  all  this,  when 
speaking  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

The  reader  must  be  sympathetic,  entering  into  the  joy  or 
grief  of  others  as  if  it  were  his  own. 

Mrs.  Siddons  once  had  a  pupil  who  was  practicing  for  the 
stage.  The  lesson  was  upon  the  "  part  ■  of  a  young  girl  whose 
lover  had  deserted  her.  The  rendering  did  not  please  that 
Queen  of  Tragedy,  and  she  said,  "  Think  how  you  would  feel 
under  the  circumstances.  What  would  you  do  if  your  lover 
were  to  run  off  and  leave  you  ?"  "  I  would  look  out  for 
another  one,"  said  that  philosophic  young  lady,  and  Mrs.  Sid- 
dons with  a  gesture  of  intense  disgust  cried  out,  "  Leave  me!" 
and  would  never  give  her  another  lesson. 

There  must  be  a  lively  imagination  combined  with  artistic 
skill.  The  picture  must  not  only  be  clear  and  distinct  in  tht 
mind  of  the  reader,  but  he  must  be  able  to  hold  it  up  before 
his  audience  as  if  it  were  on  canvass.  He  must  make  the 
principal  parts  stand  out  in  high  relief;  then  he  must  with 
skillful  fingers  touch  up  the  picture,  showing  a  vivid  light 
here  and  a  shadow  there,  until  the  chiaro-oscuro  is  perfect. 

Such  actors  as  Booth  and  Ristori,  such  readers  as  Fanny 
Kemble  and  Murdoch,  and  such  singers  as  Jenny  Lind  and 
Parepa  are  really  Raphaels  and  Michael  Angelos.  Their  pic- 
ture cannot  be  purchased  by  connoisseurs  and  hung  in  stately 


Introduction.  xv 

nails,  but  in  the  heart  of  every  listener  the  gems  of  art  arc 
hung,  and  memory  forever  after  is  enraptured  as  she  gazes. 

The  judgment  must  be  sound,  else  bombast  may  be  mis« 
taken  for  eloquence,  and  rant  for  the  true  expression  of  feel- 
ing. And  'finally,  in  reading,  as  in  everything  else,  common 
sense  is  a  valuable  acquisition,  and  he  who  has  it  not,  though 
his  voice  may  be,  at  his  will,  as  strong  as  that  of  a  lion  or  as 
gentle  as  that  of  a  dove,  will  never  please. 

In  brief,  the  chief  requisites  of  the  reader  are  voice,  imita- 
tion, feeling,  artistic  skill  and  above  all  common  sense. 


I.  ORTHOEPY. 

Orthoepy  is  the  correct  pronunciation  of  words. 

In  order  to  fix  habits  of  correct  pronunciation  and  distinct 
enunciation,  it  is  well  to  drill  the  voice  upon  the  elementary 
•ounds  of  the  language. 

A  Tonic  is  an  unobstructed  vocal  tone,  which  is  capable  of 
indefinite  prolongation. 

TABLE. 


& 

asin 

ale. 

6 

as  in 

old. 

a 

u 

art. 

5 

« 

ooze. 

a 

u 

all. 

o 

« 

odd. 

1 

H 

at. 

u 

u 

flute. 

5 

H 

eve. 

a 

u 

up. 

8 

(( 

end. 

ou 

« 

out. 

I 
I 

N 

ice. 
it. 

oi 

M 

oil 

A  Subtonic  has  vocality,  but  is  interrupted  in  its  passage 
and  is  not  capable  of  prolongation. 


TABLE. 

b 

as  in 

boy. 

1 

as  in 

lamp. 

d 

<« 

dote. 

r 

« 

roll. 

B 

(< 

go- 

m 

M 

mad. 

v 

<< 

vase. 

n 

H 

no. 

th 

<( 

then. 

ng 

u 

song. 

z 

(< 

zone. 

w 

M 

wine. 

z 

<< 

azure. 

y 

u 

yet. 

An  Atonic  is  literally  a  sound  without  tone,  an  expulsion 

of  whispered  In 
1 


2  EXMMi  TSMB  IX  A7,' 

TABLE. 

p  as  in     pit  s     as  in  sink, 

t  ton.  sh       "  sharp. 

k  "        Kate.  h        "  hem. 

f  fate.  wh      «  what, 

til  think 

There  are  also  a  few  "  occasional "  sounds,  and  also  many 
combinations,  which  it  is  not  thought  necessary  to  give  in  the 
preceding  tables.  Let  the  pupil  pronounce  the  elements  with 
every  variety  of  force,  pitch,  stress  and  time ;  and  to  this  add 
phonic  spelling.  These  exercises  will  not  only  give  correct  pro- 
nunciation, but  will  give  also  flexibility  to  the  organs  of  spe- 
ll. QUALITY  OF  VOICE. 

Quality  is  the  kind  or  tone  of  voice  used  in  exj pressing 
sentiment  Nature  has  so  wisely  formed  the  human  voice 
and  the  human  soul,  that  certain  tones  are  associated  with 
certain  emotions.  We  readily  recognize  the  cry  of  pain  or 
fright,  the  language  of  joy  or  sorrow,  command  or  entreaty, 
though  the  words  spoken  are  in  an  unknown  tongue.  Intelli- 
gent animals  and  children  obey  tones  rather  than  words ;  and, 
as  quality  of  voice  is  nature's  own  mode  of  giving  us  the  key 
to  her  mind,  particular  and  early  attention  should  be  given  to 
this  part  of  vocal  culture. 

Rubens  could,  by  one  stroke  of  his  brush,  convert  a  laugh- 
ing  into  a  weeping  child;  and  we  can  color  emotion  with 
qualities  of  voice  so  that  the  metamorphosis  is  not  less  sudden 
or  more  complete. 

i.  Pure  Quality  is  that  used  in  common  conversation,  sim- 
ple narrative  or  description. 

If  the  voice  is  not  really  and  technically  pure,  exercise  in 
vocal  culture  may  make  it  so.  Children's  voices  seem  to  be 
naturally  pure.  It  is  the  utterance  of  evil  passion,  with  bad 
reading  and  reciting  in  the  schools,  that   makes   the  voice 


Kzmbcibws  tor  Elocution.  3 

sharp  and  disagreeable.     The  teacher  should  see  that  all  the 
exercises  of  the  school  are  carried  on  in  cheerful  tones : 

1. 

Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, — 
trippingly  on  the  tongue;  but  if  you  mouth  it,  as  many  of  our 
players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spake  my  lines.  Nor 
do  not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand  thus,  but  use  all 
gently;  for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  I  may  say, 
whirlwind  of  your  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a 
temperance,  that  may  give  it  smoothness.  Oh !  it  offends  me 
to  the  soul,  to  hear  a  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow  tear  a 
passion  to  tatters — to  very  rags — to  split  the  ears  of  the 
groundlings ;  who,  for  the  most  part,  are  capable  of  nothing 
but  inexplicable  dumb  show  and  noise.  I  would  have  such  a 
fellow  whipped  for  o'erdoing  Termagant :  it  out-herods  Herod. 
Pray  you,  avoid  it. 

Be  not  too  tame  neither,  but  let  your  own  discretion  be 
your  tutor.  Suit  the  action  to  the  word ;  the  word  to  the 
action;  with  this  special  observance — that  you  o'erstep  not 
the  modesty  of  nature:  for  anything  so  overdone  is  from  the 
purpose  of  playing;  whose  end,  both  at  the  first  and  now, 
and  is,  to  hold,  as  'twere,  the  mirror  up  to  nature; — to 
show  virtue  her  own  feature;  scorn  her  own  image ;  and  the 
very  age  and  body  of  the  time,  his  form  and  pressure.  Now 
this,  overdone  or  come  tardy  off,  though  it  make  the  unskillful 
laugh,  cannot  but  make  the  judicious  grieve ;  the  censure  of 
which  one,  must,  in  your  allowance,  o'erweij.h  a  whole  theater 
of  others.  Oh!  there  be  players,  that  I  have  seen  play,  and 
heard  others  praise,  and  that  highly,  not  to  speak  it  profanely, 
that  neither  having  the  accent  of  Christians,  nor  the  gait  of 
Christian,  pagan,  or  man,  have  so  strutted  and  bellowed,  that 
I  have  thought  some  of  nature's  journeymen  had  made  men, 
and  not  made  them  well,  —  they  imitated  humanity  so  abomi- 
nably !  Shakspearc. 


EXERCISl 


Because  you  flourish  in  worldly  affairs, 
Don't  be  haughty,  and  put  on  airs, 

With  insolent  pride  of  station  I 
Don't  be  proud,  and  turn  up  your  nose 
At  poorer  people  in  plainer  clothes, 
But  learn,  for  the  sake  of  your  mind's  repose, 
That  wealth's  a  bubble  that  comes  —  and  goes! 
And  that  all  proud  flesh,  wherever  it  grows, 

Is  subject  to  irritation  I 


2.  The   Orotund  is  used  in  expressing  the  language  of 

grandeur,  sublimity,  awe,  reverence,  courage,  etc    It  is  round 

and  full,  and  may  be  said  to  be  the  maximum  of  pure  quality. 

s  named  ore  rotundo  by  the  old  poet,  Horace,  when 

speaking  of  the  flowing  eloquence  of  the  Greeks : 


0  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers! 
Whence  are  thy  beam?,  0  sun!  thy  everlasting  light?  Thou  comest 
forth  in  thy  awful  beauty;  the  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the 
western  wave.  Ossian. 

2. 

Once  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more; 

Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead. 

Oh,  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger: 

Stiffen  the  sinew  —  summon  up  the  blood  — 

Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard  favored  rage; 

Then  lend  to  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 

Aye,  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostrils  wide. 

Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 

To  its  full  height !  On,  on,  you  noble  English, 

Whose  blood  is  set  from  fathers  of  war  proof; 

Cry,  Heaven  for  Harry,  England  and  St.  George ! 

ShaTcsptar*. 


i:.xercises  in  Elocution.  5 

3.  The  Pectoral  gives  expression  to  deep-seated  anger, 
despair,  great  solemnity,  etc.  It  has  its  resonance  in  the 
chest ;  is  low  in  pitch ;  is  usually  accompanied  by  slow  time, 
and  is,  indeed,  a  very  low  orotund : 

1. 
Oh!  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christian  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  't  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days. 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time ! 

2. 

Macb.  Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep  no  more, 
Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep  —  the  innocent  sleep  — 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveTd  sleeve  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  life,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  natare's  second  course, 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast: — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more,  to  all  the  house : 
Glamis  hath  murder'd  sleep  ;  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more  —  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  I 

Shakspeare 

4.  The  Guttural  (from  guttur,  throat)  is  used  to  express 
anger,  hatred,  contempt,  loathing,  etc  Its  characteristic  is 
an  explosive  resonance  in  the  throat. 

I. 
How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks ! 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian  ; 
But  more,  for  that,  in  low  simplicity, 
II-  l<mds  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usuanoe  with  us  here  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
1  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him! 


EXMMOIBm  IN  BlOOX  ftOJT. 

He  bates  our  sacred  nation ;  and  he  r.V 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate, 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  ray  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest  —  Cursed  be  my  tribe 
If  I  forgive  him! 

2. 

Thou  ttavt,  thou  wrdchy  thou  coward  I 

Thou  cold-blooded  davtl 

Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  ? 

Doff  it,  for  shame,  and  hang 

A  calf-tkin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

5.  The  Plaintive  is  used  in  the  language  of  pity,  grief,  etc 


Oh !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want 

And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

Bood. 

2. 

"Farewell!"  said  he,  "Minnehaha! 
Farewell,  0  my  Laughing  Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you, 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you ! 
Come  not  back  again  to  labor, 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer, 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Weai  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
8oon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  your  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Kingdom  of  Ponemah, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter !"  Longfellow. 


i:\krcises  in  Elocution,  t 

6.  The  Aspirate  gives  the  whispered  utterance  of  secrecy, 
.  etc.     Its  characteristic  is  distinctness  —  indeed,  whatever 

is  lost  in  vocality  is  made  up  in  distinctness.     For  this  reason 
exercise  upon  this  quality  is  of  great  value  in  vocal  culture. 
The  aspirate  is  usually  combined  with  other  qualities. 

1. 

Speak  softly  1 
All's  hushed  as  midnight  yet. 

See'st  thou  here  ? 

TUi8  is  the  mouth  o'  the  cell :  no  noise  1  and  enter 
2. 
I  fear  thee  ancient  mariner  1 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand! 
And  thou  art  long  and  lank  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea  sand.  Coleridge* 

7.  The  Falsetto  is  used  in  expressing  affectation,  terror,  pain, 

mockery,  anger,  etc.     It  is  pitched  above  the  natural  range 

of  voice : 

1. 

Til  not  endure  it — Duke  or  no  Duke  — 

I'll  be  a  Duchess,  Sir  !  Honey  Moon. 

2. 
"How  now? 
Woman  —  where,  woman,  is  your  ticket, 
That  ought  to  let  you  through  our  wicket? 
Says  Woman,  "  Where  is  Davids  Cow  t " 

"      II ,  with  expedition, 

'•  There's  do  Cow  in  the  Exhibition." 

1  C*no!  —  but  here  her  tongue  in  verity, 
Set  off  with  steam  and  rail  celerity  — 
•*  iVc  Cow!  there  ain't  no  Cow,  then  the  more's  the  ihame  an<} 

'ton  and  the  R.  A's,  and  all  the  Banging  Committee! 
No  Cow  —  but  hold  your  tongue,  for  you  needn't  talk  to  me  — 
Yon  can't  talk  up  the  Cow,  you  cant,  to  where  it  ought  to  be  — 
I  havrit  teen  a  picture  high  or  low,  or  any  how, 
Or  in  anj  of  tiie  room*  to  b«  compared  with  David's  Cow  "     Hood 


8  Exercises  in  Elocutiox. 

The  pupils  will  determine  the  Quality  of  voice  to  be  used 

in  reading  the  following  examples,  giving  also  the  names  of 

authors : 

1. 

Rejoice,  you  men  of  Angiere!  ring  your  bells: 

King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach ;  — 

Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way ! 

2. 
Stoop,  Romans,  stoop, 
And  let  us  bathe  our  hands  in  Caesar's  blood; 
Then  walk  ye  forth,  even  to  the  market-place ; 
And,  waving  our  red  weapons  o'er  our  heads, 
Let's  all  cry  peace  I  freedom !  and  liberty  I 


Call  me  their  traitor!  —  Thou  injurious  tribune! 

Within  thine  eyes  sat  twenty  thousand  deaths, 

In  thine  hands  clutched  as  many  millions,  in 

Thy  lying  tongue  BOTH  numbers,  I  would  say, 

Thou  LIEST. 

4. 

But  the  deacon  swore,  (as  deacons  do, 

With  an  "I  dew  vum,M  or  an  "I  tell  yeou,") 

He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 

'IT  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentry  raoun; 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  could'n'  break  daowa  — 

■  Fur,"  said  the  deacon,  "  't's  mighty  plain 

That  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 

'N'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T*  make  that  uz  strong  uz  the  rest" 

5. 
When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech 
And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 
Cries,  "  Help,  keind  Heaven  I "  and  drops  upon  her  knees, 
On  the  green  —  baize,  beneath  the  —  canvas  —  trees. 


j:.\i:i:<  1SKS  Vt  ELOCUTION.  9 

6. 
"  I  wad  ha'e  kent  it,  Mr.  North,  on  the  tower  o'  Babd,  on  the 
day  o'  the  great  hubbub.  I  think  Socrates  maun  ha'e  had  just  sic  a 
voice — ye  canna  weel  ca  't  sweet,  for  it  is  ower  intellectual  for 
that  —  ye  canna  ca  't  sail,  for  even  in  itslaigh  notes  there's  a  sort  o' 
birr,  a  sort  o'  dirl  that  betokens  power — ye  canna  ca  't  hairsh,  for 
angry  as  ye  may  be  at  times,  it 's  aye  in  tune  frae  the  fineness  o' 
your  ear  for  music — ye  canna  ca  't  sherp,  for  it 's  aye  sae  nat'ral  — 
red  flett  it  cud  never  be,  gin  you  were  even  gi'en  ower  by  the 
doctors.  It 's  maist  the  only  voice  I  ever  heard,  that  I  can  say  is 
at  ance  persuawsive  and  commanding  —  you  micht  fear  't,  but  yen 
ma  in  love  't ;  and  there's  no  voice  in  all  his  Majesty's  dominions, 
better  framed  by  nature  to  hold  communion  with  friend  or  foe." 

7. 
Mr.  Orator  Puff  had  two  tones  in  his  voice, 

The  one  squeaking  thus,  and  the  other  down  so; 
In  each  sentence  he  uttered  he  gave  you  your  choice ; 

For  one  half  was  B  alt,  and  the  rest  G  below. 

0  !  oh  1  Orator  Puff, 

One  voice  for  an  orator  's  surely  enough! 

But  he  still  talked  away,  'spite  of  coughs  and  of  frowns, 

So  distracting  all  ears  with  his  ups  and  his  downs, 

That  a  wag  once,  on  hearing  the  orator  say, — 

"  My  voice  is  for  war,"  asked  him, —  "Which  of  them  pray  ?* 

0 1  oh  1  Orator  Puff, 

One  voice  for  an  orator  's  surely  enough  1 

Reeling  homeward  one  evening,  top-heavy  with  gin, 

And  reheaising  his  speech  on  the  weight  of  the  crown, 
lie  tripped  near  a  sawpit,  and  tumbled  right  in, 

1  Sinking  fund,"  the  last  words  as  his  noddle  came  down. 
0 !  oh !  Orator  Puff, 
One  voice  for  an  orator  's  surely  enough  I 

'0!  8avel"  he  exclaimed,  in  his  he-and-she  tones, 

p  me  outl  help  me  out!  I  have  broken  my  bones !" 
"Ilelp  you  out!"  said  a  Paddy,  who  passed,  "  what  a  bother  I 
.  there's  two  of  you  there ;  can't  you  help  one  anotl 
0!  oh!   Orator  Pufl', 

for  an  orator  *s  surely  en< 
1* 


10  A  \.  BOXB1  I   U    J  LOCUTION. 

8. 
Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest 

—  Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast  I 
Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sius  to  her  Saviour. 


9. 

Shivering  I     Hark  1  be  mutters 
Brokenly  now  —  that  was  a  difficult  breath  — 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  0  Death  ? 

Look  1  how  his  temple  flutters  1 
Is  his  heart  still ?     Aha!  lift  up  his  head  1 
He  shudders  —  gasps  —  Jove  help  him  —  so  —  he's  dead 

# 
10. 

Ora.  —  0,  upright  judge !  —  Mark,  Jew  1  —  a  learned  judge  I 

Shy.  —  \  Tremulously.]  —  Is  that  the  law  ? 

Por.  —  Thyself  shall  see  the  act : 
For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assur'd 
Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desir'st 

Ora.  —  0  learned  judge !  —  Mark,  Jew  1  — a  learned  judge. 

Shy.  —  I  take  this  offer,  then ;  —  pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go. 

Bass.  —  Here  is  the  money. 

Por.  —  Soft: 
The  Jew  shall  have  all  justice ;  —  soft  1  —  no  haste ;  — 
He  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty. 

Ora.  — 0,  Jew!  an  upright  judge,  a  learned  judge! 


E.X  -  IN  Elocuti  11 

11. 

The  hu!n:in  voice  is  to  be  considered  as  a  musical  instrument  — 
an  or  meted  by  the  hand  of  the  Great  Master  of  all  1 1.ir  - 

raony.     It  has  its  be  pipe,  its  mouth-piece;  and  when  we 

know  the  "stops"  "  it  will  discourse  most  eloquent  music."  It  has 
its  gamut,  or  scale  of  ascent  and  descent;  it  has  its  keys,  or  pitch, — 
nes, —  its  semi-tones,  its  bass,  its  tenor,  its  alto,  its  melody, 
its  cadence.  It  can  speak  as  gently  as  the  lute,  "like  the  swc-t 
south  upon  a  bed  of  violets,"  or  as  shrilly  as  the  trumpet;  it  can 
tune  the  "  silver  sweet"  note  of  love,  and  the  iron  throat  of  war ;" 
in  fine,  it  may  be  modulated  by  art  to  any  sound  of  softness  or  of 
strength,  of  gentleness  or  harshness,  of  harmony  or  discord.  And 
the  ar*.  that  wins  this  music  from  the  strings  is  Elocution. 

12. 
1.  Adam.     Dear  master,  I  can  go  no  farther:  Oh,  I  die  for  food! 
Here  lie  I  down  and  measure  out  my  grave.     Farewell,  kind  master. 

III.  FORCE. 
Force  denotes  the  strength  or  power  of  the  voice. 

i.  Degrees. 
i.  Moderate.      Used   with  pure   quality.     It  is  like  the 
mezzo  and  mezzo  piano  in  music 

1. 

There  are  three  classes  of  women. 

First,  domestic  Drudges,  who  are  wholly  taken  up  in  the  material 

s    of    their    housekeeping,    husband-keeping,    cluld-keeping. 

Their  housekeeping  is  a  trade,  and  no  more ;  and,  after  they  have 

done  that,  there  is  no  more  which  they  can  do.     In  New  England 

it  is  a  small  class,  getting  less  every  year. 

Next,  there  are  domestic  Dolls,  wholly  taken  up  with  the  tain 
show  which  delights  the  eye  and  the  ear.  They  are  ornaments  of 
the  estate.  Similar  toys,  I  suppose,  will  one  day  be  more  cheaply 
manufactured  at  Paris  and  Nurnberg,  at  Frankfort-on-ii 
and  other  toy  shops  of  Europe,  out  of  wax  and  papier-mache,  and 
sold  in  Boston  at  the  haberdasher's,  by  the  dozen.  These  ask 
nothing  beyond  their  function  as  dolls,  and  bate  all  attempts  to 
eli'vate  womankind 


1 2  Ex  I B I  /  S  M  Of  El  OOl  TJON. 

2. 
8o  goes  the  world !  if  wealthy,  you  may  call 

friend,  that  brother,  friends  and  brothers  all ; 
Though  you  are  worthless,  witless,  never  mind  it; 
You  may  have  been  a  stable-boy  —  what  then? 
Tis  wealth,  good  sir,  makes  honorable  men. 

You  seek  respect,  no  doubt,  and  you  will  find  it 
But  if  you're  poor,  Heaven  help  you  1  though  your  sir* 
Had  royal  blood  within  him,  and  though  you 
Possessed  the  intellect  of  angels,  too, 
Tis  all  in  vain  ;  —  the  world  will  ne'er  inquire 
On  such  a  score;  — why  should  it  take  the  pains  ? 
'Tis  easier  to  weigh  purses,  sure,  than  brains. 

Jane  Taylor. 

2.  Gentle.     Very  soft — like  the  piano  and  pianissimo  of 
music ;  used  in  expressing  tenderness,  love,  secrecy,  caution,  etc  • 

1. 
Hush-a-bye,  Lillian, 
Rock  to  thy  rest ; 
Be  thy  life,  little  one, 
Evermore  blest 
Once  has  the  changing  moon 
Waned  in  the  skies 
Since  little  Lillian 
Opened  her  eyes. 
Once  has  the  crescent  moon 
Shone  in  the  west, 
On  little  Lillian 
Taking  her  rest 


Ellen  Schenck. 


2. 

Is  there  a  lone  mother 
Weeping  dead  hopes  above, 
Who  bade  her  boy  do  battle 
Tender  with  tears  and  love  ? 
Mourns  she  over  his  ashes 
With  many  a  bitter  cry  ? 
Pity  her  anguish  Father, 
Who  gavest  thy  Son  to  die. 


BXMMOZMMS  in  Elocution.  13 

3.  Heavy.     The  forte  and  fortissimo  of  music — used  in 
command,  exultation,  denunciation,  etc. : 

1. 

Stand  I  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves, 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  V 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal, 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel, 

Ask  it,  ye  who  will  1  Pitrponi. 

2. 

1  scorn  forgiveness,  haughty  man  1 
You've  injured  me  before  the  clan ; 
And  nought  but  blood  shall  wjpe  away 
The  shame  I  have  endured  this  day. 

4.  Crescendo    *-C  A  gradually  increasing  volume  of  voice . 

But  lo  1  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire  — 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

Read. 

5.  Diminuendo.     A  gradually  decreasing  volume  of  voice : 

The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low. 

J.  B.  Brown. 

2.  Variations  of  Force,  or  Stress. 

1.  Radical  z=^~    An  explosive  force  upon  the  opening  of 
the  vowel ;  used  in  lively  description,  command,  fear,  etc. : 

1. 
•'8  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 
There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the  flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  seal 

Bryant 


U  JSxi  in  Elocution. 

2. 
Talk  not  to  me  of  odds  or  match  I 

D  Co.nvn  <lied,  three  daggers  clashed  within 
His  side.     Talk  not  to  me  of  sheltering  hall  I 
The  Church  of  God  saw  Comyn  fall  I 
On  God's  own  altar  streamed  his  blood ; 
While  o'er  my  prostrate  kinsman  stood 
The  ruthless  murderer,  even  as  now, — 
With  armed  hand  and  scornful  brow. 
Up !  all  who  love  me  I  blow  on,  b 
And  lay  the  outlawed  felon  low  I 

Scott. 

2.  Final  — «=c  An  explosive  force  upon  the  closing  of  the 
vowel;  used  in  expressing  determination,  doggedness,  dis- 
gust, etc. : 

1. 
A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not : 
The  sword  we  have  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not! 

Campbell. 

2. 

I'll  have  my  bond  ;  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak : 
I'll  have  my  bond ;  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-eyed  fool, 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not: 
I'll  have  no  speaking:  I  will  have  my  bond. 

Shakspeare. 
3. 
You  may,  if  it  be  God's  will,  gain  our  barren  and  rugged  moun- 
tains. But,  like  our  ancestors  of  old,  we  will  seek  refuge  in  wilder 
and  more  distant  solitudes;  and  when  we  have  resisted  to  the  last 
we  will  starve  in  the  icy  wastes  of  the  glaciers.  Aye!  men,  womer. 
and  children,  we  will  be  frozen  into  annihilation  together,  ere  one 
free  Switzer  will  acknowledge  a  foreign  master. 

3.  Median  — «=C^=—  A  swell  of  the  voice  upon  the  mid- 
dle of  the  vowel;  used  in  the  language  of  grandeur,  sub- 
limity, etc. : 


Jb  W  Elocution.  15 

l. 

0  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my  fathers  I 
whence  are  thy  beams,  0  sun !  thy  everlasting  light?    Thou  0) 
forth  in  thy  awful  beauty :  the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky; 

the  moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  western  wave. 

Ostiun. 
2. 
Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells  1 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  1 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night, 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  1 
From  the  molten  golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle  dove,  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon  I 
Oh  1  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells, 
I  low  it  swells  1 
How  it  dwells! 
On  the  future! — how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells, 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  1 

Pot. 
3. 

Oh !  sing  unto  the  Lord  a  new  song;  for  he  hath  done  marvel- 
ous things;  his  right  hand  and  hi*  holy  arm  hath  gotten  him  the 
victory.     Make  a  joyful  noise  unto  the  Lord,  all  the  earth;  make  a 
loud  noise,  and  rejoice,  and  sing  praise.     Sing  unto  the  Lord  with 
btrpj  with  the  harp  and  the  voice  of  a  psalm. 

Bible. 

4.  Thorough  □    An  explosive  force  throughout  the  vowel, 
used  if.  emphatic  command,  braggadocio,  etc. : 

1. 
M,  come  all,  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  iu  turn  base  as  soon  as  L  Scoti. 


16  in  Elocution. 

2. 
"Go/'  cried  the  mayor,  "and  get  long  poles  1 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats  1  "  Robert  Drowning. 

5.  Compound   X     An  explosive  force  upon  the  opening 
and  closing  of  the  vowel,  indicating  surprise : 

1. 
Gone  to  be  married  1     Oone  to  swear  a  peace  / 
False  blood  to  false  blood  joined  !     Oone  to  be  friends  t 
Shall  Lewis  have  Blanche,  and  Blanche  these  provinces? 

Shakspeare. 
2. 
Julia.  Why  1  do  you  think  1*11  work? 
Duke.  I  think  'twill  happen,  V 
Julia.  What,  rub  and  scrub  your  noble  palace  clean  ? 
Duke.  Those  taper  ringers  will  do  it  daintly. 
Julia.  And  dress  your  victuals  (if  there  be  any)  ?    0,  I  shall  gc 
mad.  Tobin. 

6.  Tremulous  ~~~~    A  waving  movement  of  voice,  used 
in  expressing  excessive  joy,  grief,  fear,  old  age,  etc : 

1. 
Oh  1  then,  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 

She  comes 
In  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone, 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman, 
Drawn  by  a  team  of  little  atomies 
Athwart  men's  noses,  as  they  lie  asleep ; 
Her  wagon  spokes  made  of  long  spinners'  legs ; 
The  cover,  of  the  wings  of  grasshoppers; 
The  traces,  of  the  smallest  spider's  web ; 
The  collars,  of  the  moonshine's  watery  beams ; 
Her  whip  of  cricket's  bone ;  the  lash  of  film ; 
Her  wagoner,  a  small  gray-coated  gnat ; 
Her  chariot  is  an  empty  hazel-nut, 
Made  by  the  joiner  squirrel,  or  old  grub, 
Time  out  of  mind  the  fairies'  coachmakers. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  17 

And  in  this  state  she  gallops,  night  by  night, 

Through  lover's  brains,  and  then  they  dream  of  love ; 

O'er  lawyers'  fingers,  who  straight  dream  on  fees; 

O'er  ladies'  lips,  who  straight  on  kisses  dream : 

Sometimes  she  gallops  o'er  a  courtier's  nose, 

And  then  dreams  he  of  smelling  out  a  suit ; 

And  sometimes  comes  she  with  a  tithe-pig's  tail, 

Tickling  a  parson's  nose,  as  he  lies  asleep, 

Then  dreams  he  of  another  benefice : 

Sometimes  she  driveth  o'er  a  soldier's  neck, 

And  then  dreams  he  of  cutting  foreign  throats, 

Of  breaches,  ambuscadoes,  Spanish  blades, 

Of  healths  five  fathom  deep;  and  then  anon 

Drums  in  his  ear ;  at  which  he  starts  and  wakes ; 

And,  being  thus  frighted,  swears  a  prayer  or  two, 

And  sleeps  again.  Shakspeai-e. 

2. 

0,  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'st  thro'  the  dark 

To  the  face  of  thy  mother  I  consider  I  pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 

Whose  sons  not  being  Christ's,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  1 

3. 

The  little  girl  slid  off  his  knee, 

And  all  of  a  tremble  stood. 
"Good  wife,"  he  cried,  "come  out  and  see, 

The  skies  are  as  red  as  blood." 
"God  save  us!"  cried  the  settler's  wife, 

"  The  prairie's  a-fire,  we  must  run  for  life  I  n 

The  pupil  will  determine  the  quality,  degree  of  force  and 
rjess  to  be  used  in  giving  the  following  examples,  also  giving 

r.ames  of  authors : 

1. 
The  good  ship  Union's  voyage  is  o'er, 

At  anchor  safe  she  swings, 
And  loud  and  clear  with  cheer  on  cheer 
Her  joyous  welcome  rings: 


18  tn  Elocution. 

Hurrah!   hurr  kes  the  wave, 

It  thunders  on  the  shore,  — 

One  flag,  one  land,  one  heart,  one  hand, 
One  nation  evermore ! 


2. 
Oh  I  I  have  passed  &  miserable  night 


An  hour  passed  on— -the  Turk  awoke; 
That  brig!  was  his  last; 

roke —  t<>  hear  his  sentries  si: 
arms  I  they  come  I  the  Greek!  the  Greek!" 
He  woke  —  to  die  'midst  flame,and  6inoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre  stroke, 
And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud  ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Boszaris  cheer  his  band : 
Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike  —  for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 
Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires; 
God,  and  your  native  land! 

4. 

I  really  believe  some  people  save  their  bright  thoughts  as  being 
too  precious  for  conversation.  "What  do  you  think  an  admiring 
friend  said  the  other  day  to  one  that  was  talking  good  tilings  — 
good  enough  to  print?  "Why,"  said  lie,  "you  are  wasting  mer- 
chantable literature,  a  cash  article,  at  the  rate,  as  nearly  as  I  can 
tell,  of  fifty  dollars  an  hour."  The  talker  took  him  to  the  window, 
and  asked  him  to  look  out  and  tell  him  what  he  saw. 

"  Nothing  but  a  very  dusty  street,"  he  said,  "  and  a  man  driving 
a  sprinkling  machine  through  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  the  man  he  is  wasting  that  water  ?  What 
would  be  the  state  of  the  highways  of  life,  if  we  did  not  drive 
our  thought-sprinklers  through  them  with  the  valves  open,  some- 
times?' 


wisjss  in  Elocution.  19 


Oli,  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears, 
Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger: 
Stiffen  the  sinew — summon  up  the  blood  — 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  hard  favored  rage; 
Then  lend  to  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect  ; 
Aye,  set  the  teeth  and  stretch  the  nostrils  wide. 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  its  full  height  1  On,  on,  you  noble  English, 
Whose  blood  is  set  from  fathers  of  war  proof; 
Cry,  Heaven  for  Harry,  England  and  St.  George ! 

6. 
There's  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 
A  new  face  at  the  door. 

7. 
As  the  dying  man  murmurs,  the  thunders  swell. 

IV.  TIME, 
i.  Movement  or  Measure  of  Speech. 

x.  Moderate.     The  rate  of  unimpassioned  language,  used 

with  pure  quality : 

1. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  how  little  in  general  people  know  about  the 
sky.  It  is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  Nature  has  done  more  for 
the  sake  of  pleasing  man,  more  for  the  sole  and  evident  purpose  of 
talking  to  him  and  t  i.im,  than  in  any  other  of  her  works 

and  it  is  just  the  part  in  which  we  least  attend  to  her. 

Ruskin. 

2. 
It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  clouds  nre  highest  up  in  air, 

]   Ronald  brought  a  lily  white  doe, 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 


20  ISES  IN  ELOCI  TloX. 

2.  Quick.  The  movement  of  joy,  humor,  etc: 

And  see  t  she  stirs  1 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 
She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

LorgfeUovo 

3.  Rapid.     Used  in  expressing  haste,  fear,  etc. : 

Hurrah  I  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culvcrin. 
The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 
1  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 
Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  —  upon  them  with  the  lance! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest. 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star, 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Macaulay. 

4.  Slow.     Used  in  the   language  of  grandeur,  sublimity 
adoration,  etc. : 

And  thou,  0,  silent  mountain,  sole  and  bare, 
O,  blacker  than  the  darkness,  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars,  — 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink,  — 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  !  wake,  oh  !  wake,  and  utter  praise  1 
Ye  ice-falls  1  ye  that  from  your  dizzy  heights 
Adown  enormous  ravines  steeply  slope,  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  noise, 
And  stopped  at  once  amidst  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  1  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven, 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  21 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows?     Who  with  lovely  flowers 

Of  living  blue  spread  garlands  at  your  feet?  — 

God  I  God  !  the  torrents  like  a  shout  of  nations 

Utter :  the  ice-plain  bursts,  and  answers,  God  I       CoUrvlge. 

5..  Very  slow.    The  deepest  emotion  of  horror,  awe,  gloom, 

etc.: 

I  had  a  dream  which  was  not  all  a  dream, — 

The  bright  sun  was  extinguished;  and  the  stars 

Did  wander  darkling  in  the  eternal  space, 

Ray  less  and  pathless;  and  the  icy  earth 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air; 

Morn  came,  and  went,  and  came,  and  brought  no  day. 

Byron. 

Examples  for  determining  Quality,  Force,  Stress,  Time  and 

names  of  authors : 

1. 

I'll  tell  ye  what  I 
I'll  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot, 
To  see  how  't  seems,  then  soon  's  I've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely  's  not, 

I'll  astonish  the  nation, 

An'  all  creation, 
By  flyin'  over  the  celebration ! 
Over  their  heads  I'll  sail  like  an  eagle; 
I'll  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-pull; 
I'll  dance  on  the  chimbleys;  I'll  stand  on  the  steeple; 
I'll  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people  I 
I'll  light  on  the  liberty-pole,  an'  crow; 
An*  I'll  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 

"  What  world  's  this  'ere 

That  I've  come  near  ?  ' 
Fur  I'll  make  'em  b'lieve  I'm  a  chap  f'm  the  moon; 
An'  Til  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  balloon  I" 

2. 

Alas,  what  need  you  be  so  boisterous-rough  ? 
I  will  not  struggle,  I  will  stand  stone-still. 
For  Heaven's  sake,  Hubert,  let  me  not  be  bound  ; 
Nay,  hear  me,  Hubert,  drive  these  men  away 
And  I  will  sit  as  quiet  a*  a  lamb; 


22  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

I  will  not  stir,  nor  wince,  nor  speak  a  word, 
Nor  look  upon  the  iron  angerly : 
Thrust  but  these  men  away,  and  I'll  forgive  you 
Whatever  torment  you  do  put  me  to. 

3. 
:  my  heart  it  grew  ashen  and  sober 
As  the  leaves  that  were  crisped  and  sere  — 
As  the  leaves  that  were  withering  and  sere, 
And  I  cried, —  M  It  was  surely  October, 
On  this  very  night  of  last  year, 
That  I  journeyed  — I  journeyed  down  here  — 
That  I  brought  a  dread  burden  down  here, — 
On  this  night  of  all  nights  in  the  year, 
Ah,  what  demon  hath  tempted  me  here? 
Well  I  know  now  this  dim  lake  of  Auber  — 
This  misty  mid  region  of  Weir, — 

I  know  now  this  dark  tarn  of  Auber, 
This  ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  Wt •;: 

4 
Ye're   there,  but  yet  I  see  you  notl  —  forth  draw  each  trusty 

sword, 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel  clash  once  around  my  board  1 
I  hear  it  faintly  !  — louder  yet  I     What  clogs  my  heavy  breath  ? 
Up,  all !  — and  shout  for  Rudiger,  "  Defiance  unto  death  1 " 

5. 
Arm!  arm!  it  is  —  it  is  the  cannon's  opening  roar! 

: !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness. 

6. 
And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 
As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  23 

2.   Pause  or  Grouping  of  Speech. 
"A  pause  is  often  more  eloquent  than  words." 

i.  Sentential.  Founded  upon  the  syntactical  structure  of 
the  sentence  and  indicated  by  the  marks  of  punctuation. 
It  is  addressed  to  the  eye,  and  may  or  may  not  be  used  as  a 
rest  of  the  voice. 

The  old-school  fashion  of  stopping  invariably  at  the 
comma  long  enough  to  count  one,  at  a  semicolon  two,  at  a 
colon  three,  etc.,  lias,  we  hope,  with  other  relics  of  school 
barbarism,  passed  away. 

"How  did  Garrick  speak  the  soliloquy,  last  night?"  — " Oh! 
against  all  rule,  my  lord,  most  ungrammatically  1  Betwixt  the  sub- 
stantive and  the  adjective,  which  should  agree  together  in  number, 
case  and  gender,  he  made  a  breach  thus  —  stopping,  as  if  the  point 
wanted  settling;  and  betwixt  the  nominative  case,  which,  your 
lordship  knows,  should  govern  the  verb,  he  suspended  his  voice  in 
the  epilogue  a  dozen  times,  three  seconds  and  time-fifths  by  a 
stop-watch,  my  lord,  each  time."  "Admirable  grammarian  1  — 
But,  in  suspending  his  voice,  —  was  the  sense  suspended  ?  —  Did  no 
expression  of  attitude  or  countenance  fill  up  the  chasm?  —  Was  the 
eye  silent?  Did  you  narrowly  look?"  —  "I  looked  only  at  the 
stop-watch,  my  lord  1 "  — "  Excellent  observer  1 " 

Sterne's  sketch  of  the  critic  at  the  theatre. 

2.  Rhetorical.  Wholly  dependent  upon  the  sense  and  feel- 
ing, and,  while  it  rests  the  voice  of  the  speaker,  is  addressed 
to  the  ear  of  the  listener.  • 

We  give  a  few  examples  covering  the  principal  ground  of 
Rhetorical  Pause. 

I.  (i.)  After  the  subject  of  a  sentence. 

Intemperance  |  is  a  vice. 

(2.)  After  the  subjective  phrase. 

The  pleasures  of  sin  |  are  but  for  a  season. 

(3.)  When  the  subject  is 

The  meekest  of  men  |  was  Moses. 


24  Exercises  in  Elocution 

2.  After  every  emphatic  word. 
Mary  |  is  a  good  girl. 

Mary  is  |  a  good  girL 
Mary  is  a  good  |  girl. 

3.  Before  the  prepositional  phrase. 
We  are  going  |  into  the  country. 

4.  Wherever  an  ellipsis  occurs. 

Bey  Britton,  |  only  a  lad,  |  a  fair-haired  boy,  |  sixteen,  | 

In  his  uniform. 
Into  the  storm,  into  the  roaring  jaws  of  grim  Port  Henry, 

Boldly  bears  the  Federal  flotilla, 
Into  the  battle  storm. 

5.  In  order  to  arrest  the  attention. 

The  sentence  was  |  Death. 

The  student  will  locate  rhetorical  pauses  in  the  following 
examples,  giving  also  names  of  authors : 

1. 
It  was  a  maxim  of  Raffaelle's  that  the  artist's  object  was  to  make 
things  not  as  Nature  makes  them,  but  as  she  would  make  them  ;  as 
she  ever  tries  to  make  them,  but  never  succeeds,  though  her  aim 
may  be  deduced  from  a  comparison  of  her  effects;  just  as  if  a 
number  of  archers  had  aimed  unsuccessfully  at  a  mark  upon  a  wall, 
and  this  mark  weje  then  removed,  we  could  by  the  examination 
of  their  arrow-marks  point  out  the  probable  position  of  the  spot 
aimed  at,  with  a  certainty  of  being  nearer  to  it  than  any  of  their 
allots. 

2. 

I  am  not  come 
To  stay :  to  bid  farewell,  farewell  forever, 
For  this  I  come !     Tis  over !   I  must  leave  thee! 
Thekla,  I  must  —  must  leave  thee  1     Yet  thy  hatred 
Let  me  not  take  with  me.     I  pray  thee,  grant  me 
One  look  of  sympathy,  only  one  look. 


/.\  i  IX  Elocution.  26 

3. 

Hal  bind  him  on  his  back  I 
Look  !  — as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here! 
Quick  —  or  be  faints  I  —  stand  with  the  cordial  near  I 

Now  —  bend  him  to  the  rack  I 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  flesh ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  I 

So  —  let  him  writhe!     How  long 
W:I  he  live  thus?    Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha!  gray- haired,  and  so  strong! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 

V.  MELODY, 
i.  Pitch 
Pitch  is  the  degree  of  the  elevation  or  depression  of  sound. 
In  music,  exactness  can  be  reached  in  regard  to  pitch,  while 
in  elocution,  we  can  only  use  terms  which  are  modified  by  dif- 
ferent voices  and  gradations  of  emotion  with  different  persons. 
i.  Middle.     Used  in  conversational  language : 

1. 
The  first  step  towards  becoming  a  good  elocutionist,  is  a  correct 
articulation.  A  public  speaker,  possessed  of  only  a  moderate  voice, 
if  he  articulates  correctly,  will  be  belter  understood,  and  heard 
with  greater  pleasure,  than  one  who  vociferates  without  judgment 
The  Yoice  of  the  latter  may  indeed  extend  to  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, but  the  sound  is  dissipated  in  confusion.  Of  the  former 
voice  not  the  smallest  vibration  is  wasted,  every  stroke  is  perceived 
at  the  utmost  distance  to  which  it  reaches ;  and  hence  it  has  often 
the  appearance  of  penetrating  even  farther  than  one  which  is  loud, 
out  badly  articulated.  Comstock. 

2. 

lumbers  of  midnight,  the  sailor-boy  lay; 

ammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind ; 
But,  watch-worn,  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away ; 
And  visions  of  happiness  dane'd  o'er  his  mind. 

Dimond. 
•1 


20  HRCISES  IN  ELOCU'll 

a.  High.     Indicates  joy,  grief,  astonishment,  etc. : 

1. 
■  The  slogan's  ceased  —  but  hark  I  din  ye  no  hear 
The  Campbell's  pibrock  swell  upon  the  bre< 
They're  coming,  hark  1 "  then  falling  on  her  knees, — 
M  We're  saved,"  she  cries,  "  we're  saved."  Vandenhoff. 

2. 
Go  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 

And  fling  the  starry  banners  out; 
Shout  "FREEDOM  **  till  your  lisping  cnes 

Give  back  their  cradle  shout.  Whittier. 

3.  Low.  Expresses  grave,  grand,  solemn  or  reverential 
feeling.  The  use  of  the  low  pitch  is  very  effective  in  reading. 
Ruskin  says  of  painting,  "  If  you  wish  to  express  vivid  light, 
you  must  make  the  shadows  sharp  and  visible,"  and  this  rule 
will  apply  to  word  pictures  as  well. 

It  will  not  do  to  give  any  particular  rendering  for  the  voice- 
effect  alone,  but  if  taste  is  not  sacrificed,  some  shading  will 
only  bring  out  the  beauty  of  the  picture : 

And  he  hangs,  he  rocks  between  —  and  his  nostrils  curdle  in,— 

ToU  slowly  I 
And  he  shivers  head  and  hoof — and  the  flakes  of  foam  fall  off; 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin, 
And  a  look  of  human  woe,  from  his  staring  eyes  did  go  — 

Toll  slowly  I 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  in  a  foretold  agony 

Of  the  headlong  death  below. 

Mrs.  Browning. 

4.  Transitions.  It  is  very  important  that  the  student  in  vocal 
culture  be  able  to  take  any  pitch  at  will,  making  sudden  transi- 
tions. Who  has  not  suffered  agonies  untold,  when  listening  to 
a  speaker  whose  voice  was  keyed  upon  and  sustained,  without 
variableness  or  shadow  of  turning,  upon  the  highest  and 
sharpest  pitch  possible?  The  minister  who  preaches  upon 
an  even  pitch,  whether  high  or  low,  lulls  his  audience  to  sleep. 
The  high  voice  is  at  first  offensive  to  the  ear,  but  bye  and  bye 


g  in  Elocution.  27 

the  sameness  is  found  to  be  a  fatal  opiate.     Nothing  rests  the 
voice  like  transitions  of  pitch,  time,  force  and  quality. 
2.  Monotone. 
Sameness  of  voice,  indicating  solemnity,  power,  reverence, 
vastness,  or  a  "  dead  level"  in  surface  or  sentiment. 

1. 
Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 
Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

PercivaL 
2. 

And  the  sun  became  black  as  sackcloth  of  hair,  and  the  moon 
became  as  blood;  and  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  unto  the  earth,  even 
as  a  fig  tree  casteth  her  untimely  figs,  when  she  is  shaken  of  a 
mighty  wind.  And  the  heaven  departed  as  a  scroll  when  it  is 
rolled  together ;  and  every  mountain  and  island  were  moved  out  of 
their  places.  Bible. 

We  must  not  confound  monotony  with  the  monotone. 
Much  of  the  school  room  reading  is  monotonous  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  yet  if  the  monotone  would  give  the  reading  grand 
effect,  without  doubt  the  pupil  will  read  in  his  most  lively  manner. 

The  haste  and  monotony  often  exhibited  in  reading  the 
beautiful  words  of  the  church  service  is  to  be  deplored.  Some 
one  has  said,  that  haste  seems  to  be  the  only  requisite  of  wor- 
ship. The  clerk  of  the  Assembly  may  read  the  bills  so  that 
no  member  can  possibly  know  their  import,  but  when  the 
magistrate  administers  the  sublime  oath  —  "Do  you  solemnly 
swear  in  the  presence  of  Almighty  God,  etc.,"  as  if  he  were 
;;ng  an  invoice  of  goods,  and  the  person  taking  the  oath 
'•  kisses  the  Bible  with  as  much  solemnity  as  he  would  a  walk- 
ing stick,"  the  whole  tiansaction  seems  like  a  sacrilegious  farce. 

3.    DlATONE. 

The  progress  of  pitch  through  the  interval  of  a  whole  tone, 
used  in  expressing  lively  emotion,  or  in  common  conversation. 


28  l.XERCISES  IX   ELOCUTION. 

Will  the  New  Year  come  to-night,  mamma?  I'm  tired  of  waiting  so; 
My  stocking  hung  by  the  chimney  side,  full  three  long  days  ago. 
1  run  to  peep  within  the  door  by  morning's  early  light, 
Tis  empty  still,   ohl  say,  mamma,  will   the   New  Year  come  to- 
night ?  Miss  Eager. 
4.  Semitone. 

The  progress  of  pitch  through  the  interval  of  a  half  tone. 
It  is  called  also  the  Chromatic  melody,  because  it  paints  pity 
grief,  remorse,  etc.  It  may  color  a  single  word,  or  be  contin 
ued  through  an  entire  passage  or  selection : 

Vear  comes  to-night,  mamma,  M  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  "  —  tell  poor  papa  —  "  my  soul  to  keep, 
If  I "  —  how  cold  it  seems,  how  dark,  kiss  me,  I  cannot  see, — 
The  New  Year  comes  to  night,  mamma,  the  old  year  dies  with  me. 

Miss  Eager. 

The  Semitone  is  very  delicate,  and  must  be  produced  by 
the  nature  of  the  emotion.  An  excess,  when  the  mood  or  lan- 
guage does  not  warrant  it,  turns  pathos  into  burlesque,  and 
the  scale  may  be  turned  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous 
by  the  weight  of  a  hair.  Strength,  flexibility  and  melody  of 
voice  are  of  little  worth  if  the  judgment  and  the  taste  are 
defective. 

When  reading  is  considered  and  treated  as  a  branch  ol 
aesthetic  culture,  then,  and  not  till  then,  will  it  be  fully  effective 

When  the  beggar  implores  your  alms,  he  knows  full  well  that 
he  must  bring  to  his  aid  the  melody  of  the  semitone.  We 
once  passed  four  beggars  upon  Harlem  bridge,  the  first  said, 
"  Pity  the  blind !  "  the  second,  "  Have  mercy  on  the  blind !  " 
the  third,  "  Help  the  blind !  "  and  the  fourth,  "  Give  to  the 
poor  blind  man !  "  All  had  the  same  tune,  made  up  of  semi 
tonic  slides,  but  when  a  policeman  ordered  them  away,  th 
melody  was  changed  to  diatonic  imprecations. 

Waves  or  Circumflex. 

semi  tonic  wave. 
Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man. 


Exercises  in  Elocution,  S0 

DIATONIC   WAVE. 

Hail,  holy  light  1 

1 1  i^'h  on  a  throne  of  royal  state  1 

WAVE   OF   A   THIRD. 

I  said  he  was  my  friend. 
Ah  1  is  he  your  friend,  then  ? 

WAVE  OP   A  FIFTH. 

I  said  he  was  my  friend. 
Is  he  solely  your  friend  ? 

WAVE  OF   AN  OCTAVE. 

Irony.  All  this  ?  Aye,  more  1  Fret  till  your  proud  heart  break. 
Go,  show  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are,  and  make  your  bond- 
man tremble.  Must  I  budge  ?  Must  I  observe  you  ?  Must  I  stand 
and  crouch  under  your  testy  humor  ? 

FIFTH   AND   OCTAVE. 

Ridicule.  You  must  take  me  for  a  fool  to  think  I  could  do  that. 

Irony.  For  mine  own  part.  I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 
For  Brutus  is  an  honorable  man. 

Irony.  You  meant  no  harm  ;  oh,  no  1  your  thoughts  are  innocent ; 
you  have  nothing  to  hide ;  your  breast  is  pure,  stainless,  all  truth. 

Antithesis.  If  you  said  so,  then  I  said  so.  Let  the  gall'd  jade 
wince,  our  withers  are  unwrung  1 

VI.  GESTURE, 
i.  Position  of  the  Hand. 
i.  Supine  ;  open  hand,  fingers  relaxed,  palm  upward  ;  used 
in  appeal,  entreaty,  in  expressing  light,  joyous  emotions,  etc. 

2.  Prone  ;  open  hand,  palm  downward  ;  used  in  negative 
expressions,  etc. 

3.  Vertical ;  open  hand,  palm  outward  ;  for  repelling,  ward- 
ing off,  etc. 

4.  Clenched  ;  hand  tightly  closed  ;  used  in  defiance,  cour- 
age, threatening,  etc. 

5.  Pointing  ;  prone  hand,  loosely  closed,  with  index  finger 
extended  ;  used  in  pointing  out,  designating,  etc. 

2.  Direction. 
1.   Front ;  the  hand  descending  below  the  hip,  extending 


so 


Exercises  in  Elocution. 


horizontally,  or  ascending  to  a  level  or  above  the  head,  at 
right  angles  with  the  speaker's  body. 

2.  Oblique  ;   at  an  angle  of  forty-five   degrees   from  the 
speaker's  body. 

3.  Extended  ;  direct  from  the  speaker's  side. 

4.  Backward  ;  reversely  corresponding  to  the  oblique. 


Abbreviations. 


The    dotted    words    indicat 
where  the  hand  is  to  be  raised 
in  preparation. 

The  gesture  is  made  upon  the 
words  in  capitals. 

The  hand  drops  upon  the  itali- 
cised word  or  syllable. 


R.  H.  S.  Right  Hand  Supine. 

R.  H.  P.  Right  Hand  Prone. 

R.  H.  V.  Right  Hand  Vertical. 

H.  II.  S.  Both  Hands  Supine. 

B.  H.  P.  Both  Hands  Prone. 

B.  H.  V.  Both  Hands  Vertical. 

D.    f.  Descending  Front. 

H.    f.  Horizontal  Front 

A.    £  Ascending  Front. 

D.  o.  Descending  Oblique. 

H.  o.  Horizontal  Oblique. 

A.  a  Ascending  Oblique. 

D.  e.  Descending  Extended. 

H.  e.  Horizontal  Extended. 

A.  e.  Ascending  Extended 

D.  b.  Descending  Behind. 

H.  b.  Horizontal  Behind. 

A.  b.  Ascending  Behind. 

The  following  examples  have  appeared  in  several  works  on 
Elocution — The  New  York  Speaker  and  others.  Despairing 
of  furnishing  better  examples,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  use 
them  : 


Directions. 


R.  H.  8. 

D.  f.  This  sentiment  I  will  maintain  |  with  the  last  breath  of 
life.  

H.  f.  I  appeal  |  to  you,  sir,  for  your  de  cis  ion. 

A.  /  I  appeal  |  to  the  great  Searcher  of  hearts  for  the  truth  ol 
what  I  ut  ter. 

D.  o.  Of  all  mistakes  |  none  are  so/a  tal  as  those  which  we  incur 
through  prejudice. 

H.  o.  Truth,  honor,  J  jus  tice  were  his  mo  tivea 


A.  o.  Fix  your  eye  |  on  the  prize  of  a  truly  no  ble  am  hi  tion. 


/'xercises  in  Elocution.  81 

D.  a.    Vwat  |  with  an  idea  so  absurd! 

H  e   The  breeze  of  morning  |  wafted  in  cense  on  the  air. 

A.  a  In  dreams  thro'  camp  and  court  he  bore  |  the  troplues  of  a 

ooNqueror.  

D.  b.  Away  J  with  an  idea  so  abhorent  to  humanity ! 

H.  b.  Search  the  records  of  the  remotest  an  n  quity  for  a  parallel 

to  this. 
A.  b.  Then  rang  their  proud  hurrah  I 

R.  H.  P. 
D.f.  Put  down  |  the  unworthy  feeling! 

//.  /.  Re  strain  the  unhallowed  pro  pen  sity. 

D.  o.  Let  every  one  who  would  merit  the  Christian  name  j  re 

press  I  such  a  feeling.       

H.  o.  I  charge  you  as  men  and  as  Christians  J  to  lay  a  re  straint 

on  all  such  dispo  si  tions ! 

A.  o.  Ye  gods  |  with  hold  your  ven  geance  1 

D.  e.  The  hand  of  affection  j  shall  smooth  the  turf  for  your  last 
^n'Zlow! 

If.  e.  The  cloud  of  adver  |  sity  threw  its  gloom  over  all  his  pros 

pecta. 

A.  e.  So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud  that  swathes  |  as  with 

a  purple  shroud  Benledi's  distant  hill. 
r.  n.  v. 
///.  Arise!  meet  |  and  re  pel  your  foet 

A  f.  For  bid  it,  Almighty  OodI 

II.  o.  He  generously  extended  the  arm  of  power  |  to  ward  orr 
the  blow.  

A.  o.  May  Heaven  a  vert  the  cal  am  ity ! 

//.  e.  Out  of  my  sight  |  thou  serpent  I 

II.  b.  Thou  tempting  fiend,  a  vaunt! 

b.  n.  a. 
D.  /.  All  personal  feeling  he  de  pos  ited  on  the  al  tar  of  his  country's 

R00d. 


32  i:\ercises  in  Elocution. 

H.f.  Listen,  I  im  plore  you,  to  the  voice  of  rea  son  I 

A.f.  Haii.I  un i vereal  Lord. 

D.  o.  Every  personal  advantage  |  he  surRENdered  to  the  common 

good. 

If.  o.  Wki.com e  !  once  more  to  your  early  home  I 

A.  o.  Hail!  holy  Light/ 

D.  e.  I  utterly  re  nounce  |  all  the  supposed  advantages  of  such  a 

tfation. 
II.  e.  They  yet  slept  |  in  the  wide  a  btss  of  possi  bit  ity. 

A.  e,  Joy,  joy  |  for  ever, 

b.  H.  p. 
D.f  Lie  light  ly  on  him,  earth — his  step  was  light  on  the* 

II.  f  Now  all  the  blessings  of  a  glad  father  light  on  thee  I 

A.f.  Blessed  be  Thy  name  0  Lord,  Most  High. 

D.  o.  We  are  in  Thy  sight  J  but  as  the  worms  of  the  dust  I 

H.  o.  May  the  grace  of  God  |  abide  with  you  for  ever. 

A.  o.  And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest  |  o'er  all  the  mountain  t  pa 

D.  e.  Here  let  the  tumults  of  passion  |  forever  cease  ! 

H.  e.  Spread  wide  a  round  the  heaven-breathing  calm  I 

A.  e.  Heaven  |  opened  wide  her  ever  during  gates. 

b.  h.  v. 
H.  f.  Hence  hideous  specter  I 

A.  f  Avert  0  God,  the  frown  of  thy  indignation ! 

H.  o.  Far  from  our  hearts  be  so  inhuman  a  feeling. 

A.  o.  Let  me  not  |  name  it  to  you  ye  chaste  stars! 

H.  e.  And  if  the  night  have  gathered  aught  of  er .  or  concealed 

dis  perse  it. 
A.  e.  Melt  and  dis  pel,  ye  specter  doubts  I 


ises  in  Elocution.  33 

VII.   METHODS  FOR  SELF-CULTURE. 

The  living  teacher,  as  a  model,  is  better  than  all  books  of 
rules  upon  elocution;  yet,  if  the  pupil  cannot  be  drilled  by  a 
ter  in  the  art,  he  may  study  carefully  some  good  work 
upon  the  subject,  and  if  he  is  observing  and  has  no  serious 
defect  of  voice,  may  still  make  much  progress  in  self-culture. 
The  following  table  of  exercises  are  recommended  as  helps  for 
developing  and  improving  the  voice : 

1.  Breathing  deeply  and  slowly,  rapidly  and  explosively. 

2.  Reading  in  a  whisper  so  distinctly  as  to   be  readily  heard 
throughout  a  large  room. 

3.  Reading  loudly  in  doors,  out  of  doors,  and  when  running  up 
hilL 

4.  Read  slowly  and  rapidly  alternately. 

5.  Read  high  and  low  alternately. 

6.  Read  heavy  and  gentle  alternately. 

7.  Increase  and  diminish  in  force  alternately. 

8.  Read  up  and  down  the  musical  scale  alternately. 

Specifics. 

i.  For  strength  of  voice  loud  explosive  exercises. 

r  distinct  enunciation  the  whisper  or  an  aspirated  voice. 

3.  For  smoothness  the  medium  stress  with  slow  time. 

4.  For  flexibility  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

5.  For  meeting  with  any  measure  of  success,  keep  the  eyes  and 
«ars  open  and  practice,  practice,  practice. 

VIII.   METHODS  FOR  TEACHING  READING. 

Probably  no  other  branch  in  our  schools  is  so  poorly  taught 
s  that  of  reading.  There  are  many  reasons  why  this  is  so, 
erhaps  the  principal  ones  are  these : 

1.  Teachers  cann«»i  themselves  read  w.  11. 

Now,  it  is  possible,  without  doubt,  for  a  person  who  cannot  sing 
very  well  to  teach  others  to  make  more  music  than  he  can  himself, 
2* 


34  i:\krcises  in  Elocution. 

and  just  so  with  reading,  but  if  he  is  proficient  in  the  practice  as 
well  as  the  theory,  how  much  better  can  he  teach. 

The  teacher  should  be  familiar  with  the  lesson.  He  should  have 
a  well-defined  plan  in  his  mind  concerning  the  manner  in  which  it 
shall  be  taught.  He  should  decide  previously  what  questions  he 
will  ask  to  arouse  attention  —  how  he  will  fix  the  lesson  in  the 
mind. 

2.  The  matter  of  the  lessons  is  often  far  beyond  the  comprehen- 
sion of  the  pupil. 

Many  a  child  blunders  on  over  a  dissertation  upon  the  "  Problems 
of  the  Universe"  or  the  "  Grandeur  of  the  Ocean"  without  an  idea 
concerning  the  meaning  of  a  sentence.  The  name  of  the  author  of 
"Easy  Lessons"  should  be  honored  during  all  time.  Before  the 
publication  of  this  book,  the  child  of  six  or  seven  years  of  age 
spelled  out  his  lessou  in  the  Testament  or  English  Reader.  Let  the 
teacher  make  selections  of  those  pieces  which  the  child  can  under- 
stand. 

3.  The  children  do  not  study. 

The  teacher  should  see  that  the  lesson  is  well  prepared  before  it 
is  read.  The  knowledge  of  the  child  should  be  tested  by  question- 
ing, and  he  should  be  ready  to  define  every  word  if  necessary,  and 
tell  the  story  in  hb  own  language. 

4.  The  lesson  is  often  too  lengthy. 

Pupils  are  sometimes  allowed  to  read  a  half  dozen  pages  at  a 
lesson,  and  then  only  once  over,  hurrying  through  from  preface  to 
finis  as  if  an  enemy  were  in  full  pursuit  and  liable  to  overtake  them 
at  any  moment-  This  is  all  wrong;  a  page  or  two  is  almost  always 
sufficient  for  a  lesson.  Let  the  piece  be  read  in  sections  and  after- 
ward reviewed. 

5.  Children  read  after  the  teacher  in  concert  or  otherwise,  having 
no  more  intellectual  drill  than  if  they  were  so  many  parrots. 

The  Pestilozzian  rule  —  "Never  tell  a  child  any  thing  which  he 
can  discover  for  himself,"  should  be  rigorously  followed  in  teaching 
reading.  Let  them  criticise  each  other  —  the  teacher  questioning 
adroitly  until  the  correct  renderijg  is  given. 

The  following  order  of  exercises  in  conducting  primary 
classes  has  been  successfully  followed : 


JEl  !  in  Elocution.  35 

i.  Primary. 

1.    PRELIMINARY    EXERCI8E. 

(For  calling  the  words  at  sight.) 

1.  Reversed  manner.     Teacher  and  children  alternating  one  word 

each. 

2.  Reversed  manner.     Boys  and  girls  alternating,  one  word  each. 

1  manner.     Careless  pupils  alternating,  with  class. 
4.   Retorted  manner.    Each  pupil  reading  a  line  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible. 
r»    Pupils  spell  and  define  difficult  words. 

2.  Reading  Exercise. 
(After  the  lesson  has  been  throughly  studied.) 

1.  Teacher  asks  questions  upon  the  lesson. 

2.  Children  read  and  criticise  each  other,  giving  reasons. 

3.  Teacher  reads  wrong,  or  without  expression.     Children  criticise. 

4.  Children  read  in  concert  after  teacher. 

5.  Books  closed.     Children  give  substance  of  lesson  in  their  own 

language. 

2.  Programme  for  the  Week. 

M      ,  J  Topic  pertaining  to  Reading,  as  emphasis,  etc. 

Mon     y.        {  Reading  from  book. 

C  Examples  brought  by   children   from   conversation 
Tuesday.        <      they  have  heard. 

(  Beading  from  book. 

!  Dictate  some  selection  not  in  the  Readers.     Children 
cony. 
Reading  from  book. 

Thursday.  —  Read  lesson  dictated  on  the  day  before. 
Friday.  — Voluntary  Reading. 

Let  each  read  any  thing  which  has  been  read  during  the  week  oi 
month.  Let  the  pupils  volunteer  in  all  cases,  and  when  reading 
face  the  class. 

For  acquiring  independence  in  reading,  and  as  a  method  of  re- 
new, this  exercise  will  be  found  invaluable. 

3.  Methods  for  Variety  in  Teaching  Reading, 

1.  Our.seit  Reading  one  pupil  naming  pauses. 

2.  Individual  Reading,  class  naming  pauses. 


36  i:.xi:i;<'ises  in  Elocution. 

3.  Boys  and  girls  alternate,  reading  a  sentence  each. 

4.  Reading  to  mistake. 
Heading  in  couples. 

6.  Giving  parts  In  dialogues. 

7   Choosing  sides  (similar  to  methods  used  in  spelling). 

8.  Looking-glass  Reading  (class  imitate  one  pupil). 

9.  Naming  pupil  who  reads  until  some  other  name  is  called. 

10.  Voting  for  best  rea<i- 

11.  Dictating  lesson,  which  they  copy  one  day  and  read  the  next 
VI.  Medley  Reading  (like  a  round  in  singing). 

13.  Volunteer  Reading. 

14.  Giving  examples  gathered  from  the  play  ground.  (Let  the 
children  read  from  the  blackboard  what  they  have  uttered  when  at 
play.  There  is  certainly  no  exercise  better  suit  el  for  teaching 
natural  reading.) 

4.  Analysis  and  Method  of  Teaching. 
Ode  on  the  Passions.  —  page  39.* 

1.  Ask  author's  name. 

2.  When  written? 

3.  What  other  writings  of  prose  or  poetry  by  same  author? 

I.  Stanza. 

1.  Meaning  of  phrase  "When  Music  was  young"? 

2.  What  country  was  the  cradle  of  arts  and  sciences? 

3.  Whose  "shell"? 

4.  Whence  is  the  figure  borrowed?  (Gods  and  goddesses  were 
represented  as  making  music  upon  sea  shells.  Triton  was  Nep- 
tune's trumpeter,  and  he  made  music  upon  a  silver  sounding  shell.) 

"  Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy  shell" 

Passing  away  —  Pieiyont. 

5.  Does  any  liue  of  the  first  four  lack  a  syllable  ? 

6.  Was  "  ed"  sounded  originally  ? 

7.  How  fill  the  rhythm  if  a  syllable  is  wanting? 

8.  What  parenthetic  expression  in  one  of  the  first  four  lines  ? 

9.  How  will  you  paint  exultation,  rage,  etc.  ? 

10  Who  were  the  muses  ?    What  is  meant  by  muses'  painting? 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  t  / 

11.  What  kind  of  "fury"  is  meant? 

Meaning  of  "rapt"? 
13.  See  that  the  pupil  does  not  say  "  rap  tinspired." 
11.  Have   class  seen  myrtles  upon   which   musical  instruments 
might  be  hung? 

15.  Get  or  give  description  of  the  myrtle  tree  of  the  east. 

II. 

I    How  paint  Fear? 

2.  How  does  fear  exhibit  itself? 

3.  The  teacher  or  some  pupil  read  in  different  ways;  class  say 
which  is  ooi 

(Class  will  always  decide  that  an  aspirated  tremor  is  correct.) 

III. 

1.  With  what  quality  of  voice  paint  Anger? 
(Guttural  explosive.) 

2.  How  paint  clash  ? 

3.  What  time  upon  last  line? 

IV. 

1.  How  would  you  paint  upon  canvas  a  picture  of  Despair? 

2.  You  would  represent  a  person  of  what  age?     Why  not  youth 
or  extreme  old  age  ? 

3.  Position  of  figure?     (Bowed  head) 

4.  If  the  person  were  to  speak,  what  tone  would  he  use? 

5.  Would  he  speak  slowly,  or  quickly,  in  high  or  low  tone  ? 

6.  In  last  clause  of  last  line,  what  other  phase  of  despair  is  des- 
cribed ? 

7.  Does  desDair  induce  insanity? 

V. 

1.  How  paint  Hope  upon  canvas? 

(Youth,  beaming  face,  looking  toward  the  future,  voice  pure, 
ringing,  high  in  pitch.) 

2.  Whit  force  QpOO  noond  and  third  line  from  the  last? 

pon  last  line? 


38  Exm wises  in  Elocution. 

VI. 

1.  Sow  read  first  half  of  first  line  ? 

2.  How  describe  Revenge  by  tone  of  voice? 

3.  How  read  third  line? 

4.  Quality  on  fourth  ? 

5.  Quality  on  fifth  ? 

6.  How  paint  the  beating  of  the  drum? 

7.  How  paint  Pity  ? 

8.  How  read  last  line  ? 

va 

1.  How  give  veering  song  of  Jealousy  ? 
(Nasal  intonation  —  with  scorn.) 

2.  Changes  in  last  line  ? 

VIII. 

1.  Tone  used  in  expressing  Melancholy? 

2.  How  read  "clashing  soft  from  rocks  around"?    (Stacato.) 

3.  Time  on  "Through  glades,  etc."? 

4.  How  read  last  three  lines  ? 

(Delicate  diminuendo,  hollow  voice,  giving  the  idea  of  distance 
oy  arching  the  throat) 

IX. 

1.  How  describe  Cheerfulness  ? 

2.  Meaning  of  buskins  ? 

3.  Meaning  of  Faun  and  Dryad? 

4.  Meaning  of  oak-crowned  sisters,  satyrs,  sylvan  boys,  etc.  f 

5.  Do  you  see  this  creature  who  personates  cheerfulness  ? 

X. 

1.  How  will  Joy  differ  from  Cheerfulness  ? 

2.  Meaning  of  Tempe's  vale  ? 

3.  What  is  the  general  time  of  this  stanza  ? 

The  questions  might  be  multiplied,  and  would,  undoubtedly. 
This  lesson  has  been  given  as  a  specimen. 

If  the  reading  is  an  intellectual  exercise,  some  such  analy- 
sis must  be  given. 


READING  AND  ELOCUTION. 


The  Creeds  of  the  Bells. 

How  sweet  the  chime  of  the  Sabbath  bells  I 
Each  one  its  creed  in  music  tells, 
In  tones  that  float  upon  the  air, 
As  soft  as  song,  as  pure  as  prayer, 
And  I  will  put  in  simple  rhyme 
The  language  of  the  golden  chime ; 
My  happy  heart  with  rapture  swells 
Responsive  to  the  bells,  sweet  bells. 

"  Id  deeds  of  love  excel  1  excel  1" 
Chimed  out  from  ivied  towers  a  bell ; 
"  This  is  the  ehureh  not  built  on  sands, 
Emblem  of  one  not  built  with  hands; 
Its  forms  and  sacred  rites  revere, 
Come  worship  here  1  come  worship  here  1 
In  rituals  and  faith  excel  1" 
Chimed  out  the  Episcopalian  bell. 

"  O  heed  the  ancient  landmarks  well  I" 
In  solemn  tones  exclaimed  a  bell  ; 
"  No  progress  made  by  mortal  man 
Can  change  the  just  eternal  plan  : 
"With  God  there  can  he  nothing  new; 
IgllOn  the  false,  emhrace  the  true, 
WMb  all  is  well  !  is  well  !  is  well  1" 
Pealed  out  the  g 1  «.l.l  Dutch  cliureh  1*11. 


40  l:\KRCISES   IN   ELOCUTION. 

"  O  swell  1  ye  purifying  waters  swell  I" 
In  mellow  tones  rang  out  a  bell, 
u  Though  faith  alone  in  Christ  can  save, 
Man  must  be  plunged  beneath  the  wave, 
To  show  the  world  unfaltering  faith 
In  what  the  Sacred  Scriptures  saith  : 
O  swell  1  ye  rising  waters,  swell  1" 
Pealed  out  the  clear-toned  Baptist  bell 

"  Not  faith  alone,  but  works  as  well, 
Must  test  the  soul  I"  said  a  soft  bell ; 
"  Come  here  and  cast  aside  your  load, 
And  work  your  way  along  the  road, 
With  faith  in  God,  and  faith  in  man, 
And  hope  in  Christ,  where  hope  began : 
Do  well  1  do  well  1  do  well  1  do  well  !'• 
Rang  out  the  Unitarian  hell. 

u  Farewell  1  farewell !  base  world,  farewell  I" 
In  touching  tones  exclaimed  a  bell ; 
"  Life  is  a  boon,  to  mortals  given, 
To  fit  the  soul  for  bliss  in  Heaven  ; 
Do  not  invoke  the  avenging  rod. 
Come  here  and  learn  the  way  to  God ; 
Say  to  the  world,  Farewell  1  farewell  !" 
Pealed  forth  the  Presbyterian  bell. 

"  To  all  the  truth,  we  tell  I  we  tell  1" 
Shouted  in  ecstacies  a  bell, 
"  Come  all  ye  weary  wanderers,  see  1 
Our  Lord  has  made  salvation  free  1 
Repent,  believe,  have  faith,  and  then 
Be  saved,  and  praise  the  Lord,  Amen  1 
Salvation's  free,  we  tell  I  we  tell  1" 
Shouted  the  Methodistic  bell. 


George  n    Bum/at 


El  /.V    /: LOCUTION.  30 

Ode  on  the  Passiona 

Wkn  Music,  Heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
Whilfl  yet  in  early  Gh  <ling» 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell ; 

ilting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting, 
By  turns,  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined; 
Till  once,  vhen  all  were  fired, 

Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  —  for  madness  ruled  the  hour  — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First,  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid; 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en   at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next,  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire, 

Tn  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings: 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hands,  the  string*. 

With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair  — 
Low  sullen  sounds!  —  his  grief  beguiled  ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 

'T  was  sad.  by  fits,  —  by  starts,  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope!   with  eyes  so  fair, 
it  was  thy  delighted  measure? 
Still  it  whispered  nromitOil  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  low  Bt  distance  hail ! 

Still  would  her  toueh  the  strain  prolong; 


11  Ejl  i  tn  Elocution. 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 

The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 
By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  walL 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 
My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!  Cnsha!  Cushal"  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cushal  Cusha!"  all  along; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot; 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


(TlON.  43 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginiM  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hi  'lis  Bow, 

Swift  as  an  arrows,  sharpe  and  strong , 
And  all  the  tin  it  wamolil  nn-e 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 
Save  whore  lull  lyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene ; 
And  lo  i  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 

And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 
To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

sayde,  "And  why  should  this  thing  be, 
What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea? 
They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  1 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne: 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  1 
An  1  storms  be  none,  and  py rates  flee, 
Why  ring  'The  Brides  of  Enderby?'  " 

I  looked  without,  and  lol  my  sonne 
Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main: 

led  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rung  again, 

"Elizabeth!  Elizabeth  1" 

(A  sweeter  woman  no'  reath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wi:  th.) 


44  Exercises  in  Elocvti 

44  The  old  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 

"God  save  you,  mother  1"  straight  he  saith; 

"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?" 

"  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play, 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea, 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho  Enderby  1" 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby  1" 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 

For  lo !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  up  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed, 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  down  with  ruin  and  rout- 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 
Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea, 


//\  !  or  Elocution.  45 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by: 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high  — 
A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 
And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 
That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed; 
And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 

And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed : 
And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 
"  0  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  1 
O  lost!  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  dcare ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grasa, 

That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alasl 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  me: 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith). 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 

By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

"  Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha !"  calling, 

the  early  dews  be  falling; 
1  shall  ncvrr  hMf  her  song, 
*  Cusha,  Cusha!"  all  along, 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 
Ooeth,  flowwth ; 


<G  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

From  the  meads  where  raelick  groweth, 

When  the  water,  winding  down, 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town, 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling, 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot  * 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow ; 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Lightfoot.  rise  and  follow ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 

Jean  Ingelow. 


Gems  from  Buskin. 

It  was  a  maxim  of  Raffaelle's  that  the  artist's  object  was  to  make 
things  not  as  Nature  makes  them,  but  as  she  would  make  them ;  as 
she  ever  tries  to  make  them,  but  never  succeeds,  though  her  aim 
may  be  deduced  from  a  comparison  of  her  effects;  just  as  if  a 
number  of  archers  had  aimed  unsuccessfully  at  a  mark  upon  a  wall, 
and  this  mark  were  then  removed,  we  could  by  the  examination  of 
their  arrow-marks  point  out  the  probable  position  of  the  spot  aime 
at,  with  a  certainty  of  being  nearer  to  it  than  any  of  their  shots. 

We  have  most  of  us  heard  of  original  sin,  and  may  perhaps,  in 
our  modest  moments,  conjecture  that  we  are  not  quite  what  God, 
or  Nature,  would  have  us  to  be.  Raffaelle  had  something  to  mend 
in  humanity:  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him  mending  a  daisy,  or  a 
pease-blossom,  or  a  moth,  or  a  mustard-seed,  or  any  other  of  God's 
-slightest  work  1     If  he  had  accomplished  that,  one  might  have  found 


r:.\i:i:<isi:s  i.x  ELOOUTJOjr.  47 

for  him  more  respectable  employment,  to  set  the  6tars  in  better 
,  perhaps  (they  seem  grievously  scattered  as  they  are,  and  to 
be  of  all  manner  of  shapes  and  sizes,  except  the  ideal  shape,  and 
roper  size);  or,  to  give  us  a  corrected  view  of  the  ocean,  that  at 
kfl  a  very  irregular  and  improveable  thing;  the  very  fisher- 
men do  not  know  this  day  how  far  it  will  reach,  driven  up  before 
wind.  Perhaps  some  one  else  does,  but  that  is  not  our 
business.  Let  us  go  down  and  stand  on  the  beach  by  the  sea  —  the 
great  irregular  sea,  and  count  whether  the  thunder  of  it  is  not  out 
of  time — one,  —  two:  —  here  comes  a  well-formed  wave  at  last, 
trembling  a  little  at  the  top,  but  on  the  whole,  orderly.  So !  Crash 
among  the  shingle,  and  up  as  far  as  this  gray  pebble !  Now,  stand 
by  and  watch.  Another:  —  Ah,  careless  wave!  why  couldn't  you 
have  kept  your  crest  on  ?  It  is  all  gone  away  into  spray,  striking 
up  against  the  cliffs  there  —  I  thought  as  much — missed  the  mark 
by  a  couple  of  feet  I  Another :  —  How  now,  impatient  one !  couldn't 
you  have  waited  till  your  friend's  reflux  was  done  with,  instead  of 
rolling  yourself  up  with  it  in  that  unseemly  manner?  You  go  for 
nothing.  A  fourth,  and  a  goodly  one  at  lastl  What  think  we  of 
yonder  slow  rise,  and  crystalline  hollow,  without  a  flaw  ?  Steady, 
good  wavel  not  so  fasti  not  so  fasti  Where  are  you  coming  to? 
is  too  bad;  two  yards  over  the  mark,  and  ever  so  much  of  you 
in  our  face  besides;  and  a  wave  which  we  had  some  hope  of^  behind 
there,  broken  all  to  pieces  out  at  sea,  and  laying  a  great  white 
tablecloth  of  foam  all  the  way  to  the  shore,  as  if  the  marine  gods 
were  to  dine  off  it!  Alas,  for  these  unhappy  "arrow-sbote"  of 
Nature!  She  will  never  hit  her  mark  with  those  unruly  w 
of  hers,  nor  get  one  of  them  into  the  ideal  shape,  if  we  wait  for  a 
thousand  years. 


Go  out  some  bright  sunny  day  in  winter,  and  look  for  a  tree  with 
a  broad  trunk,  bavin  ••licate  boughs  hanging  down  o: 

■unny  side,  near  the  trunk.  Stand  four  or  live  yards  from  it,  with 
your  back  to  the  sun.  You  will  find  that  the  boughs  between  you 
and  the  trunk  of  the  tree  are  very  indistinct,  that  you  confound 
them  in  places  with  the  trunk  itself,  and  cannot  possibly  trace  one 
of  them  from  its  insertion  to  its  extremity.  But  the  shadows 
b  they  cast  upon  the  trunk,  you  will  find  clear,  dark  and  dis- 
3 


48  Exercises  in  Elocvtios. 

tinct,  perfectly  traceable  through  their  whole  course,  except  when 
they  are  interrupted  by  the  crossing  boughs.  And  if  you  retire 
backwards,  you  will  come  to  a  point  where  you  cannot  see  the 
intervening  boughs  at  all,  or  only  a  fragment  of  them  here  and 
there,  but  can  still  see  their  shadows  perfectly  plain.  Now,  this 
may  serve  to  show  you  the  immense  prominence  and  importance 
of  shadows  where  there  is  anything  like  bright  light.  They  are,  in 
iact,  commonly  far  more  conspicuous  than  the  thing  which  casts 
them,  for  being  as  large  as  the  casting  object,  and  altogether  made 
up  of  a  blackness  deeper  than  the  darkest  part  of  the  casting  object 
(while  that  object  is  also  broken  up  with  positive  and  reflected 
.  their  large,  broad,  unbroken  spaces,  tell  strongly  on  the  eye, 
especially  as  all  form  is  rendered  partially,  oft<  n  totally  invisible 
within  them,  and  as  they  are  suddenly  terminated  by  the  sharpest 
lines  which  nature  ever  shows.  For  no  outline  of  objects  whatso- 
ever is  so  sharp  as  the  edge  of  a  close  shadow.  Put  your  finger 
owr  a  piece  of  white  paper  in  the  sun,  and  observe  the  difference 
between  the  softness  of  the  outline  of  the  finger  itself  and  the  deci- 
sion of  the  edge  of  the  shadow.  And  note  also  the  excessive  gloom 
of  the  latter.  A  piece  of  black  cloth,  laid  in  the  light,  will  not 
attain  one-fourth  of  the  blackness  of  the  paper  under  the  shadow. 

Hence  shadows  are  in  reality,  when  the  sun  is  shining,  the  most 
conspicuous  thing  in  a  landscape,  next  to  the  highest  lights.  All 
forms  are  understood  and  explained  chiefly  by  their  agency:  the 
roughness  of  the  bark  of  a  tree,  for  instance,  is  not  seen  in  the 
light,  nor  in  the  shade;  it  is  only  seen  between  the  two,  where 
the  shadows  of  the  ridges  explain  it  And  hence,  if  we  have  to 
express  vivid  light,  our  very  first  aim  must  be  to  get  the  shadows 
sharp  and  visible. 

The  second  point  to  which  I  wish  at  present  to  direct  attention 
has  reference  to  the  arrangement  of  light  and  shade.  It  is  the  con- 
stant habit  of  Nature  to  use  both  her  highest  lights  and  deepest 
shadows  in  exceedingly  small  quantity ;  always  in  points,  never  in 
masses.  She  will  give  a  large  mass  of  tender  light  in  sky  or  water, 
impressive  by  its  quantity,  and  a  large  mass  of  tender  shadow 
relieved  against  it,  in  foliage,  or  hill,  or  building;  but  the  light  is 
always  subdued  if  it  be  extensive  —  the  shadow  always  feeble  if  it 
be  broad.  She  will  then  fill  up  all  the  rest  of  her  picture  with 
middle  tints  and  pale  grays  of  some  sort  or  another,  and  on  this 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  49 

quiet  and  harmonious  whole,  she  will  touch  her  high  ligh'js  in  spots 

-  the  foam  of  an  Isolated  wave  —  the  sail  of  a  solitary  vessel —  the 
flash  of  the  sun  from  a  wet  roof —  the  gleam  of  a  single  white- 
washed cottage  —  or  some  such  sources  of  local  brilliancy,  she  will 
use   so   vividly  and    delicately  as   to  throw  everything   else   into 

lite  shade  by  comparison.  And  then  taking  up  the  gloom,  she 
will  use  the  black  hollows  of  some  overhanging  bank,  or  the  black 
Iresa  of  some  shaded  figure,  or  the  depth  of  some  sunless  chink  of 
wall  or  window,  so  sharply  as  to  throw  everything  else  into  definite 
light  by  comparison ;  thus  reducing  the  whole  mass  of  her  picture 
to  a  delicate  middle  tint,  approaching,  of  course,  here  to  light  and 
there  to  gloom ;  but  yet  sharply  separated  from  the  utmost  degrees 
either  of  the  one  or  the  other.     None  are  in  the  right  road  to  real 

lence,  but  those  who  are  struggling  to  render  the  simplicity, 
purity,  and  inexhaustible  variety  of  nature's  own  chiaroscuro  in 
open,  cloudless  daylight,  giving  the  expanse  of  harmonious  light 

—  the  speaking,  decisive  shadow  —  and  the  exquisite  grace,  tender- 
ness, and  grandeur  of  aerial  opposition  of  local  color  and  equally 
illuminated  lines. 


The  Vagabonds. 
We  are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger's  my  dog.     Come  here  you  scamp. 
Jump  for  the  gentleman  —  mind  your  eyel 

Over  the  table  —  look  out  for  the  lampl 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old  : 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and  weather, 
And  slept  out  doors  when  nights  were  cold, 

And  ate,  and  drank,  and  starved  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you : 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs  (poor  fellow, 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there  has  been  frozen), 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  outdoor  business  is  bad  for  strings), 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle. 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings. 


'so  Ejosgomb  a  I  ION. 

No,  thank  you,  sir,  I  never  drink. 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral. 
Aren't  we  Roger  ?  see  him  wink. 

Well,  something  hot  then,  we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty  too — see  him  nod  his  head, 

What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ; 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said, 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water  and  chalk. 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  sir)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by  through  thick  and  thin, 

And  this  old  coat  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  is  n't  another  creature  living, 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  through  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving, 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master. 
No,  sir !  see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  — 

By  George  I  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water  — 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow,  but  no  matter. 

We'll  have  some  music  if  you  are  willing, 

And  Roger  here  (what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir) 
Shall  march  a  little.     Start,  you  villain  1 

Paws  up  1  eyes  front !  salute  your  officer  1 
Bout  face  1  attention  1  take  your  rifle ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms  you  see.)     Now  hold 
Tour  cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier. 

March!  Halt!  Now  shoxv  how  the  Rebel  shakes 
When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence ; 


i:\ercises  in  Elocution.  61 

Now  tell  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,  that's  five  —  he's  mighty  knowing ; 

The  night's  before  us,  fill  the  glasses; 
Quick,  sir  1  I'm  ill,  ray  brain  is  going ; 

Some  brandy,  thank  you ;  there,  it  passes. 

Why  not  reform?     That's  easily  said. 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform, 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  Heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ? 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love;  but  1  took  to  drink; 

The  same  old  story,  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features  — 

You  needn't  laugh,  sir,  I  was  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures ; 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  — 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  ftur,  so  young, 

Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast; 
If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guess'd 
That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 
Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog. 

She's  married  since,  a  parson's  wife, 

'Twas  letter  for  her  that  we  should  part; 
Better  the  soberest  pmsiist  iif«- 

Than  a  blasted  I  ;i  broken  heart 


ft 2  Exercises  ur  Elocution. 

I  have  seen  her  ?     Once  1    I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road;  a  carriage  stopped, 
But  little  she  dreamed  as  on  she  went^ 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped 

You've  set  me  talking,  sir,  I'm  sorry ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change. 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing?  you  find  it  strange  ? 
1  hud  a  mother  so  proud  of  me,  * 

'Twas  well  she  died  before.    Do  you  know, 
If  the  happy  spirits  in  Heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below  ? 

Another  glass,  and  strong  to  deaden 

This  pain ;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start 
1  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  h* 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep  if  he  could 

No  doubt  remembering  things  that  were : 
A  virtuous  kennel  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now ;  that  glass  was  warming. 

You  rascal  1  limber  your  lazy  feet  1 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  or  drink, 

The  sooner  the  better  for  Roger  and  me. 

J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


A  Sea  Voyage. 
To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has  to  make 
is  an  excellent  preparative.     From  the  moment  you  lose  sight  of 
the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy,  until  you  step  on  the  oppo- 


&XERCTSES  IN  ELOCUTION.  53 

site  snore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into  the  bustle  and  novelties 
of  another  world. 

I  have  said  that  at  sea  all  is  vacancy.  I  should  correct  the 
expression.  To  one  given  up  to  day-dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing 
himself  in  reveries,  a  sea-voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation; 
but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep,  and  of  the  air,  and 
rather  tend  to  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  delighted 
to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing,  or  climb  to  the  main-top  on  a  calm 
day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil  bosom  of  a  sum- 
mer's sea ;  or  to  gaze  upon  the  piles  of  golden  clouds  just  peeriug 
above  the  horizon,  fancy  them  some  fairy  realms,  and  people  them 
with  a  creation  of  my  own  ;  or  to  watch  the  gentle  undulating  bil- 
lows rolling  their  silver  volumes  as  if  to  die  away  on  those  happy 
shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and  awe, 
With  which  I  looked  down  from  my  giddy  height  on  the  monsters 
of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols;  shoals  of  porpoises  tumbling 
about  the  bow  of  the  ship ;  the  grampus  slowly  heaving  his  huge 
form  above  the  surface;  or  the  ravenous  shark,  darting  like  a 
:e  through  the  blue  waters.  My  imagination  would  conjure 
up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery  world  beneath  me ; 
of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless  valleys;  of  shapeless 
monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth ;  and 
those  wild  phantasms  that  swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 

Sometimes  a  distant  sail  gliding  along  the  edge  of  the  ocean 
would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting  this 
fragment  of  a  world  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of  exis- 
tence 1  What  a  glorious  monument  of  human  invention,  that  has 
thus  triumphed  over  wind  and  wave;  has  brought  the  ends  of  the 
earth  in  communion;  has  established  an  interchange  of  blessings, 
•lg  into  the  sterile  regions  of  the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the 
south;  diffused  the  light  of  knowledge  and  the  charities  of  culti- 
vated life ;  and  has  thus  bound  together  those  scattered  portions  of 
the  human  race,  between  which  nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  an 
nnountable  barrirr! 

We  one  day  descried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a  dist; 
At  sea,  everything  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the  surrounding 
expanse,  attracts  attention.     It  proved  to  be  the  mast  of  a  ship 
must  have  been  completely  wrecked;    for   ti  the 


54  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of  the  crew  had  fastened 

themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their  being  washed  off  by  the 

waves.     There  was  no  trace  by  which  the  name  of  the  ship  could 

rt.iincd.     The  wreck  had  evidently  drifted  about  for  many 

months,  clusters  of  shell-fish  had  fastened  about  it,  and  Ion 

weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides.     Rut  where,  th<  erewf 

truggle  has  long  been  over;  —  they  have  gone  down  amidst 

the  roar  of  the  tempest;  —  their  bones  lie  whitening  in  the  c 

of  the   deep.     Silence  —  oblivion  —  like   the  wavea,   have   - 

cv  er  them ;  and  no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end. 

What  sighs  have  been  wafted   after  that  ship  I   what  prayers 

offered  up  at  the  deserted  fire-side  of  home  1     How  often  I 

ss,  the  wife,  and  the  mother,  pored  over  the  dally  n< 

catch  some  casual  intelligence  of  this  rover  of  How  has 

expectation    darkened    into   anxiety  —  anxiety   into   dread  —  and 

d  sir  I     Alasl  not  one  memento  shall  ever  return  for 

love  to  All  that  shall  ever  be  known  is,  that  she  sailed 

from  her  port,  "and  was  never  heard  of  more." 

Washington  Irving. 


Bible  — St.  John,  chapter  IX. 

And  as  Jesus  passed  by,  he  saw  a  man  which  was  blind  from 
his  birth. 

And  his  disciples  asked  him,  saying,  Master,  who  did  sin,  this 
man,  or  his  parents,  that  he  was  born  blind? 

Jesus  answered.  Neither  hath  this  man  sinned,  nor  his  parents: 
but  that  the  works  of  God  should  be  made  manifest  in  him. 

I  must  work  the  works  of  him  that  sent  me,  while  it  is  day: 
the  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work. 

As  long  as  I  am  in  the  world,  I  am  the  light  of  the  world. 

When  he  had  thus  spoken,  he  spat  on  the  ground,  and  made 
clay  of  the  spittle,  and  he  anointed  the  eyes  of  the  blind  man  with 
the  clay. 

And  said  unto  him,  Go,  wash  in  the  pool  of  Siloam  (which  is 
by  interpretation,  Sent).  He  went  his  way,  therefore,  and  washed, 
and  came  seeing. 

The  neighbors,  therefore,  and  they  which  before  had  seen  him 
that  he  was  blind,  said,  Is  not  this  he  that  s*t  and  begged  ? 


/•  v  i ■ '  7.s  I  x  in  Elocution.  56 

Some  said,  This  is  he  *  others  said,  He  is  like  him :  but  he  said, 
I  am  he. 

Therefore  said  they  unto  him,  How  were  thine  eyes  opened? 

He  answered  and  said,  A  man  that  is  called  Jesus  made  • 
clay,  and  anointed  mine  eyes,  and  said  unto  me,  Go  to  the  pool 
of  Siloam,  and  wash :  and  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight 

Then  said  they  unto  him,  Where  is  he?  He  said,  I  know 
not 

They  brought  to  the  Pharisees  him  that  aforetime  was  blind. 

And  it  was  the  Sabbath  day  when  Jesus  made  the  clay,  and 
opened  his  eyes. 

Then  again  the  Pharisees  also  asked  him  how  he  had  receive! 
his  sight  He  said  unto  them,  He  put  clay  upon  mine  eyes,  and  I 
washed,  and  do  see. 

Therefore  said  some  of  the  Pharisees,  This  man  is  not  of  God, 
because  he  keepeth  not  the  Sabbath  day.  Others  said,  How  can  a 
man  that  is  a  sinner  do  such  miracles?  And  there  was  a  division 
among  them. 

They  say  unto  the  blind  man  again,  What  sayest  thou  of  him, 
that  he  hath  opened  thine  eyes?     He  said,  He  is  a  prophet 

But  the  Jews  did  not  believe  concerning  him,  that  he  had  been 
blind,  and  received  his  sight,  until  they  called  the  parents  of  him 
that  had  received  his  sight. 

And  then  asked  them,  saying,  Is  this  your  son,  who  ye  say 
was  born  blind  ?  how  then  doth  he  now  see  ? 

His  parents  answered  them  and  said,  We  know  that  this  is 
our  son,  and  that  lie  was  born  blind : 

But  by  what  means  he  now  seeth,  we  know  not;  or  who  hath 
I'd  his  eyes,  we  know  not:  he  is  of  age;  ask  him:  he  shall 
speak  for  h; 

These  wordfl  tptke   hi?  parents,  because   they  feared  the  Jews: 
for  the  Jews  had  agreed  already,  that  if  any  man  did  confess  that 
he  should  be  pat  oat  of  ti.  pie. 

1 1 «•  is  of  age;  ask  him. 

Then  again  0  man  that  was  blind,  and  said  unto 

1  !od  the  praise:  we  know  that  thifl  man  is  a  sinner. 

He  answered  and  said,  Whether  he  be  a  sinner  or  no,  I  know 
not-  one  thing  I  know.  that,  where  od,  now  I  see. 

:i* 


66  JCxpMCmm  i.\  Elocutiox. 

Death  of  Morris. 

Vivid  Narrative,  exemplifying,  after  the  introductory  sentence,  Bvnv 
pathetic  Horror,  then  successively,  Terror,  Scorn,  Revenge,  Ji 
and  Awe. 

It  was  under  the  burning  influence  of  revenge  that  the  wife  of 
Macgregor  commanded  that  the  hostage,  exchanged  for  her  hus- 
band's safety,  should  be  brought  into  her  presence.  I  believe  her 
sons  had  kept  this  unfortunate  wretch  out  of  her  sight,  for  fear  of 
the  consequences ;  but  if  it  was  so,  their  humane  precaution  only 
postponed  his  fate.  They  dragged  forward,  at  her  summons,  a 
wretch,  already  half  dead  with  terror,  in  whose  agonized  features, 
I  recognized,  to  my  horror  and  astonishment,  my  old  acquaintance 
Morris. 

He  fell  prostrate  before  the  female  chief  with  an  effort  to  clasp 
her  knees,  from  which  she  drew  back,  as  if  his  touch  had  been  pol- 
lution, so  that  all  he  could  do  in  token  of  the  extremity  of  his 
humiliation,  was  to  kiss  the  hem  of  her  plaid.  I  never  heard 
entreaties  for  life  poured  forth  with  such  agony  of  spirit  Tha 
ecstasy  of  fear  was  such,  that,  instead  of  paralyzing  his  tongue,  as 
on  ordinary  occasions,  it  even  rendered  him  eloquent;  and,  with 
cheeks  as  pale  as  ashes,  hands  compressed  in  agony,  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  taking  their  last  look  of  all  mortal  objects,  he  pro- 
tested, with  the  deepest  oaths,  his  total  ignorance  of  any  design  on 
the  life  of  Rob  Roy,  whom  he  swore  he  loved  and  honored  as  his 
own  soul.  In  the  inconsistency  of  his  terror,  he  said  he  was  but 
the  agent  of  others,  and  he  muttered  the  name  of  Rashleigh.  He 
prayed  but  for  life  —  for  life  he  would  give  all  he  had  in  the  world ; 
—  it  was  but  life  he  asked  —  life,  if  it  were  to  be  prolonged  under 
tortures  and  privations,  —  he  asked  only  breath  though  it  should 
be  drawn  in  the  damps  of  the  lowest  caverns  of  their  hills. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  scorn,  the  loathing,  and  contempt, 
witli  which  the  wife  of  Macgregor  regarded  this  wretched  petitioner 
for  the  poor  boon  of  existence. 

''I  could  have  bid  you  live,"  she  said,  "had  life  been  to  you  the 
same  weary  and  wasting  burden  that  it  is  to  me  —  that  it  is  to 
every  noble  and  generous  mind.  But  you — wretch!  you  could 
creep  through  the  world  unaffected  by  its  various  disgraces,  its 
ineffable  miseries,  its  constantly  accumulating  masses  of  crime  and 
sorrow,  —  you  could  live  and  enjoy  yourself,  while  the  noble-minded 


MXBBQIBMa  /A    /.LOCUTION.  67 

are  betrayed,  —  while  nameless  and  birthless  villains  tread  on  the 
l  of  the  brave  and  long-descended,  —  you  could  enjoy  yourself, 
like  a  butcher's  dog  in  the  shambles,  battening  on  garbage,  while 
the  slaughter  of  the  brave  weut  on  around  you  1  This  enjoyment 
you  shall  not  live  to  partake  of;  you  shall  die,  base  dog,  and  that 
before  yon  cloud  has  passed  over  the  sun." 

She  gave  a  brief  command,  in  Gaelic,  to  her  attendants,  two  of 
whom  seized  upon  the  prostrate  suppliant,  and  hurried  him  to  the 
brink  of  a  dill'  which  overhung  the  flood.     He  set  up  the  most 
piercing  and  dreadful  cries  that  fear  ever  uttered  —  I  may  well  term 
them  dreadful;  for  they  haunted  my  sleep  for  years  afterwards. 
As  the  murderers,  or  executioners,  call  them  as  you  will,  dragged 
him  along,  he  recognized  me  even  in  that  moment  of  horror,  and 
limed,  in  the  last  articulate  words  I  ever  heard  him  utter,  "0, 
•sbaldistone,  save  me  1  —  save  me  I" 
I  was  so  much  moved  by  this  horrid  spectacle,  that,  although  in 
momentary  expectation  of  sharing  his  fate,  I  did  attempt  to  speak 
in  his  behalf,  but,  as  might  have  been  expected,  my  interference 
was  sternly  disregarded.     The  victim  was  held  fast  by  some,  while 
others,  binding  a  large  heavy  stone  in  a  plaid,  tied  it  around  his 
and   others   again   eagerly  stripped  him   of  some   part  of 
his  dress.     Half  naked,  and  thus  manacled,  they  hurried  him  into 
the  lake,  there  about  twelve  feet  deep,  drowning  his  last  death- 
shriek   with   a   loud    halloo   of   vindictive   triumph,    over   which, 
however,  the  yell  of  mortal  agony  was  distinctly  heard.     The  heavy 
burden  splashed  in  the  dark  blue  waters  of  the  lake;  and  the  I ! 

:th  their  pole-axes  and  swords,  watched  an  instant,  to 
guar'!  bimaelf  from   the  load  to  which  he  was 

attached,  he  might  have  struggled  to  regain  the  shore.     But  the 
knot  had  been  securely  bound  ;  the  victim  sunk  without  effort; 
aters,  which  his  fall  had  disti;  d  calmly  over  him; 

and  the  unit  of  that  life  for  which  he  had  pleaded  so  strongly,  wai 
■  n  from  the  sura  of  human  exist* 

Walter  SooU. 


58  Exi  is  Elocution, 

Courtship  under  Difficulties. 

Snobbleton.  Yes,  there  is  that  fellow  Jone9  again.  I  (Ik  lire, 
the  man  is  ubiquitous.  Wherever  I  go  with  my  cousin  Prudence 
U  nmUe  across  him,  or  he  follows  her  like  her  shadow.  Do  we 
takt  a  boating  ?  So  does  Jones.  Do  we  wander  on  the  beach  ?  So 
does  Jones.  Go  where  we  will,  that  fellow  follows  «>r  moves  be- 
fore. Now,  that  was  a  cruel  practical  joke  which  Jones  once 
plftjed  upon  meat  college.  I  have  never  forgiven  him.  But  I 
would  gladly  make  a  pretence  of  doing  so.  it  I  could  have  my 
nge.     Let  Can't  I  manage  it  ?     He  i>  head  over  ears 

in  love  with   Prudence,  bit  too  bashful  to  speak.     I  half  believe 
Mt  to  him,  though  altogether  unacquainted.     It 
may  prove  a  match,  if  I  cannot  spoil  it.     Let  DM  think.     Ha!   I 
have  it  !     A  brilliant  idea  I    Jones,  beware  I     Put  here  he  comes. 
(Enter  Jones.) 
Jones.     (Not  teeing  Snobbleton,  and  delightedly  contempUitii»j  I 
flower,  tchich  he  holds  in  hit  hand.)    Oh,  rapture  1   what  a  prize  1 
It  was  in  her  hair — I  saw  it  fall  from  her  queenly  head.  {Kisses  it 
every  now  and  then.)     How  warm  are  its  tender  leaves  from  having 
touched  her  nt  ck  !     How  doubly  sweet  is  its  perfume — fresh  from 
of  her  glorious  locks !     How  beautiful  I  how — Bless 
me!  here  is  Snobbleton,  and  we  are  enemies  1 

Snobbleton.  Good-morning,  Jones — that  is,  if  you  will  shake 
hat 

Jc  M,     What!  you — you  forgive  1     You  really — 

Yes,  yes,  old  fellow  1  All  is  forgotten.  You  played  me 
a  rough  trick;  but,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  Will  you  not  bury 
the  hate] 

Jones.     With  all  my  heart,  my  dear  fellow  I 
-     '*.     What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Jones  ?     You  look    Auite 
grumpy — not  by  any  means  the  same  cheerful,  dashing,  rollickir.g 
fellow  you  were. 

Jones.  Bless  me,  you  don't  say  so  !  (Aside.)  Confound  the  man  ! 
Pure  have  I  been  endeavoring  to  appear  romantic  for  the  last 
month — and  now  to  be  called  grumpy — it  is  unbearable  1 

Snob.  But,  never  mind.  Cheer  up,  old  fellow  !  I  see  it  all.  I 
know  what  it  is  to  be  in — 


MXMMomms  in  Elocution.  59 

Janet.     Ah  !    y<  u  ran  then  sympathize  with  me!      You  know 
what  it  is  to  he  in —  . 

Snob.     Of  course  I  do  I  (Heaven  preserve  me  from  the  toils  I    ) 
Ami  then  the  letters— the  interminahle  letters  1 
Janes.     Oh.  v.-.  the  letters  I  the  UUet  dottx  ! 
Snob.     And  the  hills— the  endless  bills  1 
Jones.    The  bills  I 

''.    Yes;  and  the  bailiffs,  the  lawyers,  the  juagc,  and  the  jury. 
I,    Why,  man,  what  are  you  talking  about  ?    I  thought  you 
\<>n  knew  what  it  was  to  be  in — 
Srob.     In  debt.     To  be  sure  I  did. 

Janet.    Bless  me !  Tin  not  in  debt — never  borrowed  a  dollar  in 
my  life.     Ah,  me  !  i:  iian  that. 

Snob.     Worse  than  that !     Come,  now,  Jones,  there  is  only  one 
thing  worse.     You're  surely  not  in  love  ? 

Janes.    Yes,  I  am.    Oh,  Snobby,  help  me,  help  me  1    Let  me  con- 
fide in  you. 

Snob.     Confide  in  me  1    Certainly,  my  dear  fellow  I     See  1   I  do 

tand  tinn. 
Janets.     Snobby,  I — I  love  her. 
Snob.     Whom  ? 

Jones.     Your  cousin,  Prudence. 
Snob.     Ha!  I'rudenee  Angelina  Winter? 

«.     Now,  don't  be  angry,  Snobby  1  I  don't  mean  any  harm, 
you  know.     I — I— you  know  how  it  is. 

Snob.  Harm  1  my  dear  fellow.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Angry  1  Not 
at  all.  You  have  my  consent,  old  fellow.  Take  her.  She  is  youre. 
lhaven  bless  you  both. 

i  s.     You  are  very  kind,  Snobby,  but  I  haven't  got  her  con- 

Snol>.  Well,  that  hi  something,  to  be  sure.  But,  leave  it  all  to 
me.  She  may  be  a  little  coy,  you  know  ;  hut,  considering  your 
generous  overlooking  of  her  unfortunate  defect — 

Jones.    Defect!    YoumrpriM 

Snob.     What!  and  you  did  not  know  oi 

Jones.     Not  at  all.    I  am  astonished  I     Nothing  Mrfow,  1  hope. 

Snob.  Oh,  no  I  only  a  little— (He  taps  Ms  ear  with  his  Jinyet, 
htwtnnaly)     I  MA,  TOO  understand  it. 


00  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Jones.    Merciful  heaven  !  can  it  be  ?     But  really,  is  it  serious  t 
Snob.     I  should  think  it  was. 
Jones.     What  !     Hut  is  she  ever  dangerous  t 
Snob.    Dangerous  I    Why  snould  she  be  ? 
Jones.     Oh,  I  perceive  I     A  mere  airiness  of  brain— a  gentle 
aberration — scorning  the  dull  world — a  mild — 
Snob.    Zounds,  man  !  she's  not  crazy  ! 
Jones.    My  dear  Snobby,  you  relieve  inc.     What  then  ? 
Snob.    Slightly  deaf.    That's  all. 
Jones.    Deaf  I 

Snob.  As  a  lamp-post.  That  is,  you  must  elevate  your  voice  to 
a  con-  pitch  in  speaking  to  her. 

Jones.     Is  it  possible  1     However,  I  think  I  can  manage.     As,  for 
instance,  if  it  was  my  intention  to  make  her  a  floral  offering,  and  I 
should  say  (elevating  fits  voice  considerably),  uMiss,  will  yon  make 
happy  by  accepting  these  flowers  ?"    I  suppose  she  could  hear 
me,  eh  ?    How  would  that  do  f 
Snob.    Pshaw  1    Do  you  call  that  elevated 
Jones.     Well,  how  would  this  do?    (Speaks  very  loudly.)    "Miss 
will  you  make  me  happy— J* 
Snob.     Louder,  shriller,  man  1 
Jones.     "Miss,  will  you — ■ 

Snob.     Louder,  louder,  or  she  will  only  see  your  lips  move. 
Jones.    (Almost  screaming.)   "  Miss,  will  you  oblige  me  by  accept- 
ing these  flowers  ?" 

Snoft.  There,  that  may  do.  Still,  you  want  practice.  I  per- 
ceive the  lady  herself  is  approaching.  Suppose  you  retire  for  a 
short  time,  and  I  will  prepare  her  for  the  introduction. 

Jones.  Very  good.  Meantime,  I  will  go  down  to  the  beach,  and 
endeavor  to  acquire  the  proper  pitch.  Let  me  see  :  u  Miss,  will 
you  oblige  me — "  (Exit  Jones.) 

,  (Enter  Prudence.) 

Prudence.  Good-morning  cousin.  Who  was  that,  speaking  so 
loudly  ? 

Srob.  Only  Jones  Poor  fellow,  he  is  so  deaf  that  I  suppose  he 
fancies  his  own  voice  to  be  a  mere  whisper. 

Pru.     Why,  I  was  not  aware  of  this.     Is  he  very  deaf  ? 

Snob.    Deaf  as  a  stone  fence.    To  be  sure,  he  does  not  use  an 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  61 

ear-trumpet  any  more,  but,  one  must  speak  exeessivcly  high.     Un- 
fortunate, too,  for  I  believe  he's  in  love. 

Pru.     In  love  !  with  whom  ? 

Snob.    Can't  you  guess  ? 

Pru.    Oh,  no  ;  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea. 

Snob.  With  yourself  1  He  has  been  begging  me  to  obtain  him 
an  introduction. 

Pru.  Well,  I  have  always  thought  him  a  nice-looking  young 
man.  I  suppose  he  would  hear  me  if  I  should  say  (speaks  loudly), 
" Good-morn inir,  Mr.  Jones?" 

Snob.    Do  you  think  he  would  hear  that? 

Pru.  Well,  then,  how  would  (speaks  very  loudly)  "  Good-morn 
log,  Mr.  Jones  ?"     How  would  that  do  ? 

Snob.  Tush  1  he  would  think  you  were  speaking  under  your 
breath. 

Pru.     (Almost  screaming.)    "  Good-morning  I" 

Snob.    A  mere  whisper,  my  dear  cousin.     But  here  he  comes. 
Now,  do  try  and  make  yourself  audible. 
(Bitter  Jonks.) 

Snob.  (Speaking  in  a  high  voice.)  Mr.  Jones,  cousin.  Miss  Win 
ter.  Jones.  You  will  please  excuse  me  for  a  short  time.  (He  retires 
but  remains  where  he  can  view  the  speakers.) 

Jones.  (Speaking  shrill  and  loud.)  Miss,  will  you  accept  these 
flowers?    I  phuked  them  from  their  slumber  on  the  hill. 

Pru.     (In  an  equally  high  voice.)     Really  sir,  I — I — 

Jones.  (Aside.)  She  hesitates.  It  must  be  that  she  does  not 
hear  me.  (Increasing  his  tone.)  Miss,  will  you  accept  these  flow- 
ers— flowers  ?     I  plucked  them  sleeping  on  the  hill — HILL. 

Pru.  (Also  increasing  lier  tone)  Certainly,  Mr.  Jones.  They  are 
beautiful — beau-u-tiful. 

Jones.  (Aside.)  How  she  screams  in  my  ear.  (Aloud.)  Yes,  I 
plucked  them  from  their  slumber — slumbf.k,  on  the  hill— hill. 

Pru.     (Aside.)    Poor  man,  what  an  effort  it  seems  for  him  to 
k.     (Aloud.)     I  i  ou  are  poetical.     Are  you  fond  of 

poetry?     (Aside.)    He  hesitates.     I  must  speak  louder.     (In  a 
scream.)     Poetry— Poetry— POETRY  1 

Ml     (Aside.)     Bless  me,  the  woman  would  wake  the  dead ! 
(Aloud.)    Yea,  Miss,  I  ad-o-r-«  it. 


«2  f'.xKRcisEs  in  Elocution. 

Snob.    Glorious !  glorious  1    I  wouder  how  loud  they  can  scream 
Oh,  vengeance,  thou  art  sweet  1 

Pru.    Can  you  repeat  some  poetry — poetry  ? 

Jane*.    I  only  know  one  poem.     It  is  this  : 

You'd  scarce  expect  one  of  my  age— Aob, 
To  opeak  In  public  on  the  stage— Stao*. 

Pru.    Bravo — bravo  1 

June*.    Thank  you !    Thank— 

/'/•(/.     Mercy  on  us  1     Do  you  think  I'm  deaf,  sir  ? 

Jones.    And  do  you  fancy  me  deaf,  Miss  ?    {Natural  tone.) 

Pru.    Are  you  not,  sir  ?  you  surprise  me  I 

Jones.  No,  Miss.  I  was  led  to  believe  that  you  were  deaf. 
Snobbleton  told  me  so. 

Pru.     Snobbleton  1     Why,  he  told  me  that  you  were  d   it. 

Jones.    Confound  the  fellow  !  he  has  been  making  game  of  us. 
Beadle's  Dime  Speaker. 

The  Front  and  Side  Boors, 
y  person's  feelings  have  a  front-door  and  a  side-door  by 
which  they  may  be  entered.  The  frontdoor  is  on  the  street.  Some 
keep  it  always  open;  some  keep  it  latched;  some,  locked;  some, 
bolted,— with  a  chain  that  will  let  you  peep  in,  but  not  get  in; 
and  some  nail  it  up,  so  that  nothing  can  pass  its  threshold  This 
front-door  leads  into  a  passage  which  opens  into  an  ante-room, 
and  this  into  the  interior  apartments.  The  side-door  opens  at 
once  into  the  sacred  chambers. 

There  is  almost  always  at  least  one  key  to  this  side-door.  This 
is  carried  for  years  hidden  in  a  mother's  bosom.  Fathers,  bro- 
thers, sisters,  and  friends,  often,  but  by  no  means  so  uo>v*rH*Uv, 

have  duplicates  of  it 

0.  W.  Holme* 


The  Relief  of  Lucknow. 
O  1  that  last  day  in  Lucknow  fort ; 

We  knew  that  it  was  the  last, 
That  the  enemy's  mines  had  crept  surely  in, 

And  the  end  was  coming  fast 

To  yield  to  that  foe  meant  worse  than  death, 
And  the  men  and  we  all  worked  on ; 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  63 

It  was  one  day  more  of  smoke  and  roar, 
And  then  it  would  all  be  done. 


There  was  one  of  us,  a  corporal's  wife, 

A  fair  young  gentle  thing, 
Wasted  with  fever  in  the  siege, 

And  her  mind  was  wandering. 

She  lay  on  the  ground,  in  her  Scottish  plaid, 

And  I  took  her  head  on  my  knee ; 
'•  When  my  father  cornea  hame  frae  the  pleugh,"  she  said, 

"  Oh !  please  then  waken  me." 

She  slept  like  a  child  on  her  father's  floor, 

In  the  flecking  of  woodbine  shade, 
When  the  house  dog  sprawls  by  the  half  open  door, 

And  the  mother's  wheel  is  stayed. 

It  was  smoke  and  roar  and  powder  stench, 

And  hopeless  waiting  for  death ; 
But  the  soldier's  wife,  like  a  full  tired  child, 

Seemed  scarce  to  draw  her  breath. 

I  sank  to  sleep  and  I  had  my  dream 

Of  an  English  village  lane 
And  wall  and  garden  —  till  a  sudden  scream 

Brought  me  back  to  the  rear  again. 

There  Jes-  ling, 

And  then  a  broad  gladness  broke 
All  01  ••.  and  she  took  my  hand, 

And  drew  me  near  and  spoke : 

"The  Highlanders!     0!  dinna  ye  hear 

The  slogan  far  awa? 
The  McGregor's?     Ah  !  I  ken  it  weel ; 
the  grandest  of  them  a'. 


«4  /'  I  i.\  Elocution. 

God  bless  the  bonny  Highlanders; 

We  're  saved  I  we  're  saved  1"  she  cried; 
And  fell  on  her  knees,  and  thanks  to  God 

Poured  forth,  like  a  full  flood  tide. 


Along  the  battery  line  her  cry 

Had  fallen  among  the  men  ; 
And  they  started ;  for  they  were  there  to  die, 

Was  life  so  near  them  then  ? 

They  listened,  for  life,  and  the  rattling  fire 

Far  off,  and  the  far  off  roar 
Were  all,  —  and  the  colonel  shook  his  head, 

And  they  turned  to  their  guns  once  more. 

Then  Jessie  said,  "  The  slogan's  dune, 

But  can  ye  no  hear  them,  noo  ? 
The  Campbells  are  comin  1     It's  nae  a  dream, 

Our  succors  hae  broken  through  1" 

We  heard  the  roar  and  the  rattle  afar, 
But  the  pipers  we  could  not  hear ; 

So  the  men  plied  their  work  of  hopeless  war, 
And  knew  that  the  end  was  near. 

It  was  not  long  ere  it  must  be  heard, 

A  shrilling,  ceaseless  sound ; 
It  was  no  noise  of  the  strife  afar, 

Or  the  sappers  under  ground. 

It  was  the  pipe  of  the  Highlanders, 

And  now  they  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  f 

It  came  to  our  men  like  the  voice  of  God ; 
And  they  shouted  along  the  line. 

And  they  wept  and  shook  each  other's  hands, 
And  the  women  sobbed  in  a  crowd ; 


s  in  Elocution. 

And  every  one  knelt  down  where  we  stood, 
And  we  all  thanked  God  aloud. 

That  happy  day,  when  we  welcomed  them  iu, 

Our  men  put  Jessie  first; 
And  the  General  took  her  hand;  and  cheers 
a  the  men  like  a  volley  burst. 

And  the  pipers'  ribbons  and  tartan  streamed, 
Marching  round  and  round  our  line  ; 

And  our  joyful  cheers  were  broken  with  tears, 
And  the  pipers  played  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 


Bobmri  LowtM 


Boy  Britton. 
L 
Boy  Britton,  only  a  lad,  a  fair-haired  boy,  sixteen 

In  his  uniform. 
Into  the  storm,  into  the  roaring  jaws  of  grim  Fort  Henry, 
Boldly  bears  the  Federal  flotilla, 
Into  the  battle  storm. 

n. 

Boy  Britton  is  Master's  Mate  aboard  the  Essex, 
There  he  stands,  buoyant  and  eagle-eyed, 

By  the  brave  Captain's  side ; 
Ready  to  do  or  dare ;  "  Aye,  aye,  sir,"  always  ready 

In  his  country's  uniform  1 
Boom  I  boom !  and  now  the  flag-boat  sweeps 
And  now  the  Essex  is  plunged 

Into  the  battle's  storm. 

m 

Boom!  boom  I  till  river,  and  fort  and  field 
Are  overclouded  by  the  battle's  breath ; 
Thee  from  the  fort  a  gleam  and  a  crashing  gun. 
Ami  the  Essex  is  wrapped  and  shrou 
In  a  scalding  cloud  of  steam. 


66  Exercises  tn  Elocution. 

IV, 

But  victory !  victory  I 
Unto  Qod  all  praise  be  rendered, 
Unto  Qod  all  praise  and  glory  be ; 
See,  Boy  Britton,  see,  Boy,  see, 
They  strike  1  hurrah  !  the  fort  has  surrendered  I 
Shout  1  shout!  my  warrior  boy, 
And  wave  your  cap,  and  clap  your  hands  for  joy. 
Cheer  answer  cheer,  and  bear  the  cheer  about 
Hurrah!  hurrah  !  for  the  fiery  fort  is  ours. 

'  Y    •   ry!"  "victory!"  "victory!" 
Is  the  shout. 
Shout  I  for  the  fiery  fort  is  ours,  and  the  field, 
And  the  day  are  ours ! 

The  day  is  ours,  thanks  to  the  brave  endeavor 
Of  heroes,  boy,  like  thee  1 
The  day  is  ours,  the  day  is  ours ! 
Glory  and  deathless  love  to  all  who  shared  with  thee, 
And  bravely  endured  and  dared  with  thee, 
The  day  is  ours,  the  day  is  ours  forever ! 
Glory  and  love  for  one  and  all,  but,  for  thee, 
Home!  home!  a  happy  welcome,  welcome  home,  for  thee, 
And  a  mother's  happy  tears,  and  a  virgin's 
Bridal  wreath  of  flowers  for  thee. 


V. 

Victory!  Victory! 
But  suddenly  wrecked  and  wrapped  in  seething  steam 
The  Essex  slowly  drifted  out  of  the  battle  storm. 
Slowly,  slowly,  down,  laden  with  the  dead  and  dying, 
And  there  at  the  captain's  feet,  among  the  dead  and  dying 
The  shot-marred  form  of  a  beautiful  boy  is  lying, 

There  in  his  uniform. 

VL 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy, 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee ; 


BXMRCISMB   IA    l-i  ",'UTIGJ.  67 

Laurels  of  light  moist  with  the  precious  dew 

Of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  nation's  loving  heart, 

And  blest  by  the  balmy  breath  of  the  beautiful  and  the  tiue, 

,  moist  with  the  luminous  breath  of  the  singing  spheres, 
And  the  nation's  starry  tears ; 

And  tremble  touched  by  the  pulse-like  gush  and  start. 
Of  the  universal  music  of  the  heart, 
And  all  deep  sympathy. 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  boy, 
Laurels  and  tears  for  thee, 
Laurels  of  light  and  tears  of  love, 
Forevermore  for  thee. 


vn 

And  laurels  of  light,  and  tears  of  truth, 
And  the  mantle  of  immortality  ; 
And  the  flowers  of  love,  and  immortal  youth, 
And  the  tender  heart  tokens  of  all  true  ruth, 

And  the  everlasting  victory. 
And  the  breath  and  bliss  of  liberty, 
And  the  loving  kiss  of  liberty. 
And  the  welcoming  light  of  heavenly  eye*, 
And  the* over  calm  of  God's  canopy; 
And  the  inGnite  love-span  of  the  skies, 
That  cover  the  valleys  of  Paradise, 
For  all  of  the  brave  who  rest  with  thee ; 
And  for  one  and  all  who  died  with  thee, 
And  now  sleep  side  by  side  with  thee; 
And  for  every  one  who  lives  and  dies 
On  the  solid  land,  or  the  heaving  sea, 
Dear  warrior  boy,  like  thee  I 


vm 

On,  the  victory,  the  victory 
Belongs  to  thee  I 
God  erer  keeps  the  brightest  crown  for  such  as  thoo, 
He  gives  it  now  to  thee. 


88  Exercises  :n  Elocution. 

Young  and  brave,  and  early  and  thrice  blest, 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest! 
Thy  country  turns  once  more  to  kiss  thy  youthful  brow, 
And  takes  thee  gently,  gently  to  her  breast, 
And  whispers  lovingly,  God  bless  thee,  bless  thee  now, 

My  darling  thou  shalt  rest! 


Forceythe  WUUon 


Bugle  Song. 
L 
The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle  blow ;  set  trie  wild  echoes  flying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

H 
0  hark,  0  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going; 
0  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 
The  horns  of  Elf-land  faintly  blowing! 
Blow;  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

m. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  field,  on  hill,  on  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow ;  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Tennyaon. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  C9 

Boll  OalL 
"Corporal  Green!"  the  Orderly  cried  ; 

"Here!"  was  thi  answer,  loud  and  clear 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near, — 

And  "  Here !"  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"Cyrus  Drew!" — then  a  silence  fell, — 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 

Only  his  rear-man  had  seen  him  fall, 
Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  not  telL 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 

These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
hiin  to  be  read  as  open  books, 
While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night 

The  fern  on  the  hill-sides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn  where  the  poppies  grew 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew ; 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 

That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 

That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire; 
And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

•*  Herbert  Kline !"     At  the  call  there  came 

Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 

Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 
Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

"Ezra  Kerr!"  —  and  a  voice  answered,  "Here!" 

''Hiram  Kerr!"  —  but  no  man  replied. 

They  were  brothers,  these  two,  the  sad  winds  sighed, 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane !"  —  then  a  soldier  spoke : 
"Deane  carried  our  Regiment's  colors,"  he  said; 
"  Where  our  Ensign  was  shot,  I  led  him  dead, 

Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke." 


70  Exercises  rx  Elocution, 

"Close  to  the  road-side  his  body  lies; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink ; 

lie  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  Death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  ■ 


T  was  a  victory ;  yea,  but  it  cost  us  dear, — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered,  "  Here !" 


Pyramus  and  Thisbe. 
This  tragical  tale,  which,  they  say,  is  a  true  one, 
Is  old  ;  but  the  manner  is  wholly  a  new  one. 
One  Ovid,  a  writer  of  some  reputation, 
Has  told  it  before  in  a  tedious  narration ; 
In  a  style,  to  be  sure,  of  remarkable  fullness, 
But  which  nobody  reads  on  account  of  its  dullnc 

Young  Peter  Pyramus  —  I  call  him  Peter, 
Not  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme  or  the  meter; 
But  merely  to  make  the  name  completer  — 
For  Peter  lived  in  the  olden  times, 
And  in  one  of  the  worst  of  pagan  climes 
That  flourish  now  in  classical  fame, 
Long  before  either  noble  or  boor 
Had  such  a  thing  as  a  Christian  name  — 
Young  Peter,  then,  was  a  nice  young  beau 
As  any  young  lady  would  wish  to  know : 
In  years,  I  ween,  he  was  rather  green, 
That  is  to  say,  he  was  just  eighteen  — 
A  trifle  too  short,  a  shaving  too  lean, 
But  u  a  nice  young  man  "  as  ever  was  seen, 
And  fit  to  dance  with  a  May-day  queen  I 

Now  Peter  loved  a  beautiful  girl 

As  ever  ensnared  the  heart  of  an  earl, 


/.\/7.   /s  n  /.v  Elocution,  71 

In  the  magical  trap  of  an  auburn  curl, — 
A  little  Miss  Thisbe,  who  lived  next  door, 
(They  livi-d,  in  fact,  on  the  very  same  floor, 
With  a  wall  betAflieen  them  and  nothing  more, — 

double  dwellings  were  common  of  yore,) 
And  they  loved  each  other,  the  legends  say, 
In  that  very  beautiful,  bountiful  way, 
That  every  young  maid  and  every  young  blade 
Are  wont  to  do  before  they  grow  staid, 
And  learn  to  love  by  the  laws  of  trade. 
But  (a-lack-a-day,  for  the  girl  and  boy !) 
A  little  impediment  checked  their  joy, 
And  gave  them  awhile,  the  deepest  annoy, 
For  some  good  reason,  which  history  cloaks, 
The  match  didn't  happen  to  please  the  old  folks  I 

So  Thisbe's  father  and  Peter's  mother 

Began  the  young  couple  to  worry  and  bother, 

And  tried  their  innocent  passion  to  smother, 

By  keeping  the  lovers  from  seeing  each  other! 

But  who  ever  heard  of  a  marriage  deterred 

Or  even  deferred 

By  any  contrivance  so  very  absurd 

As  scolding  the  boy,  and  caging  the  bird  ? 

Now,  Peter,  who  was  not  discouraged  at  all 

By  obstacles  such  as  the  timid  appal, 

Contrived  to  discover  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

Which  wasn't  so  thick  but  removing  a  l»rick 

Made  a  passage  —  though  rather  provokingly  small. 

Through  this  little  chink  the  lover  could  greet  her, 

And  secrecy  made  their  courting  the  sweeter, 

While  1  andThiabol  'etor — 

For  Irhwei,  like  folks  with  diminutive  I 

Will  manage  to  creep  through  the  smallest  of  holes! 

T  was  her  lovers,  intent  upon  love, 

Laid  a  nice  little  plot  to  meet  at  •  Op 
Near  a  mulberry-tree  in  a  neighboring  grove; 
4 


72  Exercises  in  Elocution 

For  the  plan  was  all  laid  by  the  youth  and  the  maid, 
Whose  hearts,  it  would  seem,  were  uncommonly  bold  ones, 
To  run  off  and  get  married  in  spite  of  the  old  ones. 
In  the  shadows  of  evening,  as  still  as  a  mouse, 
The  beautiful  maiden  slipped  out  of  the  house, 
The  mulberry-tree  impatient  to  find ; 
While  Peter,  the  vigilant  matrons  to  blind, 
Strolled  leisurely  out,  some  minutes  behind. 

While  waiting  alone  by  the  trysting  tree, 
A  terrible  lion  as  e'er  you  set  eye  on, 
Came  roaring  along  quite  horrid  to  see, 
And  caused  the  young  maiden  in  terror  to  flee, 
(A  lion's  a  creature  whose  regular  trade  is 
Blood  —  and  "  a  terrible  thing  among  ladies,") 
And  losing  her  veil  as  she  ran  from  the  wood, 
The  monster  bedabbled  it  over  with  blood. 

Now  Peter  arriving,  and  seeing  the  veil 
All  covered  o'er  and  reeking  with  gore, 
Turned,  all  of  a  sudden,  exceedingly  pale, 
And  sat  himself  down  to  weep  and  to  wail, 
For,  soon  as  he  saw  the  garment,  poor  Peter, 
Made  up  his  mind  in  very  short  meter, 
That  Thisbe  was  dead,  and  the  lion  had  eat  her  f 
So  breathing  a  prayer,  he  determined  to  share 
The  fate  of  his  darling,  ':  the  loved  and  the  lost," 
And  fell  on  his  dagger,  and  gave  up  the  ghost  1 

Now  Thisbe  returning,  and  viewing  her  beau, 
Lying  dead  by  her  veil  (which  she  happened  to  know) 
She  guessed  in  a  moment  the  cause  of  his  erring; 
And  seizing  the  knife  that  had  taken  his  life, 
In  less  than  a  jiffy  was  dead  as  a  herring. 

MORAL. 

Young  gentleman  1 — pray  recollect,  if  you  please, 
Not  to  make  appointments  near  mulberry- trees. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  73 

Should  your  mistress  be  missing,  it  shows  a  weak  bead 
To  be  stabbing  yourself,  till  you  know  she  is  dead. 
Young  ladies  1  —  you  shouldn't  go  strolling  about 
When  your  anxious  mammas  don't  know  you  are  out ; 
And  remember  that  accidents  often  befall 
From  kissing  young  fellows  through  holes  in  the  wall  1 

John  o.  Sax*. 


Evening  at  the  Farm. 

Over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 
His  shadow  lengthens  along  the  land, 
A  giant  staff  in  a  giant  hand  ; 
In  the  poplar-tree,  above  the  spring, 
The  katy-did  begins  to  sing  ; 

The  early  dews  are  falling ; — 
Into  the  stone-heap  darts  the  mink ; 
The  swallows  skim  the  river's  brink  ; 
And  home  to  the  woodland  fly  the  crows, 
When  over  the  hill  the  farm-boy  goes, 
Cheerily  calling, 

"  Co*,  boss  1  co',  boss  I  co'  1  co'  I  co'  P? 
Farther,  farther,  over  the  hill, 
Faintly  calling,  calling  still, 

"  Co',  boss  1  co',  boss  I  co'  1  co'  1" 

Now  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes. 

The  cattle  come  crowding  through  the  gate, 

Looing,  pushing,  little  and  great ; 

About  the  trough,  by  the  farm-yard  pump, 

The  frolicsome  yearlings  frisk  and  jump, 

While  the  pleasant  dews  are  falling; — 
The  new  mileh  heifer  is  quick  and  shy, 
But  the  old  cow  waits  with  tranquil  eye, 
And  the  white  stream  into  the  bright  pail  flows, 
When  to  her  task  the  milkmaid  goes, 

Soothiugly  calling. 
u  So,  boas  1  so,  boss  1  so  1  so  1  so  1" 


T4  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  cheerful  milkmaid  takes  her  stool, 
And  sits  and  milks  in  the  twilight  cool, 
Saying,  •*  So !  so,  boss  I  so  I  so  T 

To  supper  at  last  the  farmer  goes. 
The  apples  are  pared,  the  paper  read, 
The  stories  are  told,  then  all  to  bed. 
Without,  the  crickets'  ceaseless  song 
Makes  shrill  the  silence  all  night  long; 

The  heavy  dews  are  falling. 
The  housewife's  hand  has  turned  the  lock ; 
Drowsily*  kitchen  clock; 

The  household  sinks  to  deep  repose, 
But  still  in  sleep  the  farm-boy  goes 

Singing,  calling,— 
"  Co\  boss  1  co\  boss !  coM  co'  1  co'  I" 
And  oft  the  milkmaid,  in  her  dreams, 
Drums  in  the  pail  with  the  flashing  streams, 
Murmuring,  "  So,  boss  1  so  l" 


J.  T.  Tro\Jct/ridQ€. 


Putting  up  Stoves. 

One  who  has  had  considerable  experience  in  the  work  of  put- 
ting up  stoves  says  the  first  step  to  be  taken  is  to  put  on  a  very 
old  and  ragged  coat,  under  the  impression  that  when  he  gets  his 
mouth  full  of  plaster  it  will  keep  his  shirt  bosom  clean.  Next  he 
gets  his  hands  inside  the  place  where  the  pipe  ought  to  go,  and 
blacks  his  fingers,  and  then  he  carefully  makes  a  black  mark  down 
one  side  of  his  nose.  It  is  impossible  to  make  any  headway,  in 
doing  this  work,  until  this  mark  is  made  down  the  side  of  the  nose. 
Having  got  his  face  properly  marked,  the  victim  is  ready  to  begin 
the  ceremony.  The  head  of  the  family — who  is  the  big  goose  of  the 
sacrifice — grasps  one  side  of  the  bottom  of  the  stove,  and  his  wife 
and  the  hired  girl  take  hold  of  the  other  side.  In  this  way  the  load 
is  started  from  the  wood-shed  toward  the  parlor.  Going  through 
the  door  the  head  of  the  family  will  carefully  swing  his  side  of  the 
stove  around,  and  jam  his  thumb-nail  against  the  door-post.  This 
part  of  the  ceremony  is  never  omitted.      Having  got  the  stove 


\  EXCISES  IX  Elocxjtion.  75 

comfortably  in  place,  the  next  thing  is  to  find  the  legs.  Two  of 
these  are  left  inside  the  stove  since  the  spring  before.  The  other 
two  must  be  hunt.  r  twenty-five   minutes.      They  are 

usually  found  under  the  coal.  Then  the  head  of  the  family  holds 
up  one  side  of  the  stove  while  his  wife  puts  two  of  the  legs  in 
place,  and  next  he  holds  up  the  other  side  while  the  other  two  is 

!,  and  one  of  the  first  two  falls  out.  By  the  time  the  stove  is 
<>n  its  legs  he  gets  reckless,  and  takes  off  his  old  coat  regardless 
<>f  his  linen.    Then  he  goes  off  for  the  pipe,  and  gets  a  cinder  in 

ye.  It  don't  make  any  difference  how  well  the  pipe  was  put 
up  last  year,  it  will  be  found  a  little  too  short  or  a  little  too  long. 
The  head  of  the  family  jams  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and,  taking  a 
pipe  under  each  arm,  goes  to  the  tin  shop  to  have  it  fixed.  When 
he  gets  back  he  steps  upon  one  of  the  best  parlor  chairs  to  see  if 
the  pipe  fits,  and  his  wife  makes  him  get  down  for  fear  he  will 
scratch  the  varnish  off  from  the  chair  with  the  nails  in  his  boot- 
In  getting  down  he  will  surely  step  on  the  cat,  and  may 
thank  his  stars  if  it  is  not  the  baby.  Then  he  gets  an  old  chair, 
and  climbs  up  to  the  chimney  again,  to  find  that  in  cutting  the 
pipe  off,  the  end  has  been  left  too  big  for  the  hole  in  the  chimney. 

-•  goes  to  the  wood-shed,  and  splits  one  side  of  the  end  of  the 
with  an  old  axe,  and  squeezes  it  in  his  hands  to  make  it 
smaller.  Finally  he  gets  the  pipe  in  shape,  and  finds  that  the 
stove  does  not  stand  true.  Then  himself  and  wife  and  the  hired 
girl  move  the  stove  to  the  left,  and  the  legs  fall  out  again.  Next 
it  is  to  move  to  the  right.  More  difficulty  with  the  legs.  Moved 
to  the  front  a  little.  Elbow  not  even  with  the  hole  in  the  chimney, 
and  he  goes  to  the  wood-shed  after  some  little  blocks.  While 
putting  the  blocks  under  the  legs,  the  pipe  comes  out  of  the 
chimney.  That  remedied,  the  elboff  keeps  tipping  over  to  the 
great  alarm  of  the  wife.  Head  of  the  family  gets  the  dinner-table 
out,  puts  the  old  chair  on  it,  gets  his  wife  to  hold  the  chair,  and 
balances  himself  on  it  to  drive  some  nails  into  the  ceiling.     Drops 

hammer  on  to  wife's  head.  At  last  gets  the  nails  driven, 
makes  a  wire-swing  to  hold  the  pipe,  hammers  a  little  here,  pulls 
a  little  there,  takes  a  long  breath,  and  announces  the  ceremony 
completed. 

Job  never  put  up  any  stoves.     It  would  have  ruL.ed  his  reputa- 
tion if  he  had. 


76  ICxercises  in  Elocution. 

Tribute  to  Water. 

Paul  Denton,  a  Methodist  preacher  In  Texas  advertised  a  barbecue 
with  better  liquor  than  is  usually  tarnished,  when  the  people  were  as- 
sembled, a  desperado  in  the  crowd  walked  up  to  him,  and  cried  out: 
"  Mr.  Denton,  your  nverence  has  lle<i.  You  promised  not  only  a  good 
barbecue,  but  better  liquor.    Where*!  the  liquor?" 

•  1  iikrb!"  answered  the  p  In  tones  of  thunder,  and  pointing 

nls  motionless  finger  at  a  spring  gushing  «P  in  two  strong  columns,  with 
a  sound  like  a  shout  of  joy,  from  the  bosom  of  the  eart  ii. 

u  There  I"  he  repeated,  with  a  look  terrible  as  lightning,  while 
his  enemy  actually  trembled  at  his  feet;  "there  is  the  liquor  whirh 
God,  the  Eternal,  brews  for  all  His  children.  Not  in  the  simmering 
still,  over  smoky  fires,  choked  with  poisouous  gases,  surrounded 
with  the  stench  of  sickening  odors  and  corruptions,  doth  your 
Father  in  heaven  prepare  the  precious  essence  of  life — pure,  cold 
water;  but  in  the  green  glade  and  grassy  d»ll,  where  the  red  deer 
wanders,  and  the  child  loves  to  play,  there  God  brews  it;  and  down, 
low  down  in  the  deepest  valleys,  where  the  fountain  murmurs  and 
the  rills  sing ;  and  high  upon  the  mountain  tops,  where  the  naked 
granite  glitters  like  gold  in  the  sun,  where  the  storm-cloud  broods 
and  the  thunder-storms  crash ;  and  far  out  on  the  wide,  wild  sea, 
where  the  hurricane  howls  music,  and  the  big  wave  rolls  the  chorus, 
sweeping  the  march  of  God — there  He  brews  it,  that  beverage  of 
life— health-giving  water. 

■  And  everywhere  it  is  a  thing  of  life  and  beauty — gleaming  in 
the  dew-drop ;  singing  in  the  summer  rain ;  shining  in  the  ice-gem, 
till  the  trees  all  seem  turned  to  living  jewels;  spreading  a  golden 
veil  over  the  setting  sun,  or  a  white  gauze  around  the  midnight 
moon ;  sporting  in  the  glacier ;  folding  its  bright  snow-curtain  softly 
about  the  wintery  world ;  and  weaving  the  many-colored  bow,  that 
seraph's  zone  of  the  siren — whose  warp  is  the  rain-drops  of  earth, 
whose  woof  is  the  sunbeam  of  heaven,  all  checked  over  with  celes- 
tial flowers,  by  the  mystic  hand  of  refraction. 

"Still  always  it  is  beautiful — that  blessed  life-water  1  No 
poisonous  bubbles  are  on  its  brink  ;  its  foam  brings  not  madness  and 
murder  ;  no  blood  stains  its  liquid  glass ;  pale  widows  and  starving 
orphans  weep  not  burning  tears  in  its  depths ;  no  drunkard's  shrink- 
ing ghost,  from  the  grave,  curses  it  in  the  worlds  of  eternal  despair  I 
Speak  out,  my  friends:  would  you  exchange  it  for  the  demon's 
drink,  alcohol?"  A  shout,  Wee  the  roar  of  a  tempest,  answered, 
1  No  1"  j0hn  B.  Gough. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  77 

Olaribel's  Prayer. 

The  day,  with  cold,  gray  feet,  clung  shivering  to  the  hills, 
While  o'er  the  valley  still  night's  rain-fringed  curtains  fell; 

But  waking  Blue  Eyes  smiled,  u  Tis  ever  as  God  wills ; 
He  knoweth  best;  and  be  it  rain  or  shine,  'tis  well. 
Praise  God  I"  cried  always  little  Claribel. 

Then  sank  she  on  her  knees,  with  eager,  lifted  hands ; 

Her  rosy  lips  made  haste  some  dear  request  to  tell : 
"  0  Father  smile,  and  save  this  fairest  of  all  lands, 

And  make  her  free,  whatever  hearts  rebel. 

Amen  1     Praise  God !"  cried  little  Claribel. 

"  And,  Father,' — still  arose  another  pleading  prayer, — 
"0,  save  my  brother,  in  the  rain  of  shot  and  shell ; 

Let  not  the  death-bolt,  with  its  horrid,  streaming  hair 
Dash  light  from  those  sweet  eyes  I  love  so  well. 

"But,  Father,  grant  that  when  the  glorious  fight  is  done, 
And  up  the  crimson  sky  the  shouts  of  Freedom  swell, 

Grant  that  there  be  no  nobler  victor  'neath  the  sun 
Than  he  whose  golden  hair  I  love  so  welL 
Amen  1     Praise  God  1 "  cried  little  ClaribeL 

When  the  gray  and  dreary  day  shook  hands  with  grayer  night, 
The  heavy  air  was  filled  with  clangor  of  a  bell. 

"0,  shout!''  the  herald  cried,  his  worn  eyes  brimmed  with  light j 
"  'Tis  victory  1     0,  what  glorious  news  to  tell  I  " 
"  Praise  God !  He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Claribel. 

"  But,  pray  you,  soldier,  was  my  brother  in  the  fight  ? 

And  in  the  fiery  rain?     0,  fought  he  brave  and  well?" 
"  Dear  child,"  the  herald  cried.  "  there  was  no  braver  sight 

Than  his  young  form,  so  grand  'mill  shot  and  shell." 

"Praise  God  I  "  cried  trembling  little  ClaribeL 

"And  rides  he  now  with  victor's  plumes  of  red, 

While  trumpets'  golden  throats  his  coming  steps  foretell?** 

The  herald  dropped  a  tear.     "  Dear  child,"  he  sofUy  said, 

"  Thy  brother  evermore  with  conquerors  shall  dwell.'' 

se  God!     He  heard  my  prayer,"  cried  Cla 


78  i:\rrcises  in  Elocution. 

"  With  victors  wearing  crowns  and  bearing  palms"  he  said, 
A  snow  of  sudden  fear  noon  the  rose  lips  fill. 

"  0,  sweetest  herald,  say  my  brother  Uvea,"  she  plead. 
"Dear  child,  he  walks  with  angels,  who  in  strength  excel. 
Praise  God,  who  gave  this  glory,  ClaribeL" 

The  cold,  gray  day  died  sobbing  on  the  weary  hills, 
While  bitter  mourn;  | light  wind  rose  and  fell. 

"0,  child," — the  herald  wept, — "'tis  as  the  dear  Lord  wills: 
He  knoweth  best,  and,  be  it  life  or  death,  'tis  well" 
*'  Amen  1    Praise  God  1 "  sobbed  little  ClaribeL 

Lynde  Palmer. 


The  Skeleton  in  Armor 

Tills  nocm  wos  suggested    by   the   Round  Tower  at  Newport,  no1* 
claimed  by  the  Danes,  as  a  work  of  their  uncestOHt 

"  Speak !  speak  I  thou  fearful  guest  1 

Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 

Still  in  rude  armor  drest 

Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alma, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  V 


Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyei 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

'I  was  a  Viking  old  I 
My  deeds,  though  manifold, 
No  Scald  in  song  has  told, 
No  Saga  taught  thee ! 


SZMMCXBMB  IN  JSlOCUWOM.  *9 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse  I 
For  this  I  sought  thee. 


*Far  in  the  Northern  land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimm'd  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 


44  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Track'd  I  the  grizzly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf's  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

m  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


44  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  dm 

Burning  but  tender: 
4* 


00  A\\/:j:cises  in  Elocution. 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 


*  Bright  in  her  father's  haJ*. 
Shields  gleam'd  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  ask'd  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrel  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaff 'd 
Loud  then  the  champion  laugh'd 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  wait 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 
I  but  a  Viking  wild, 
And  though  she  blush'd  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 


"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me  — 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen !  — 


K.\  tn  Elocution,  8i 

When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Wailing  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  wl'  old  Hildebrand, 
With  twenty  horsemen. 


"Then  launch'd  they  to  the  blast, 
:t  like  a  reed  each  mast, 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 
When  the  wind  fail'd  us: 

And  with  a  sudden  flaw 

Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 

So  that  our  foe  we  saw 
Laugh  as  he  hail'd  us. 


*  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veer'd  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  1  was  the  helmsman's  hail 

Death  without  quarter  I 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hull  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water. 

"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 

ng  to  sea  | 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden. 


-  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
1-1  ike  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  leeward : 


82  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 
Stands  looking  sea-ward. 


"There  lived  we  many  years; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyoa, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 


14  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sun-light  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Gad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

0,  death  was  grateful ! 


u  Thus,  seam'd  with  my  many  scare 

Bursting  these  prison  bars, 

Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 

There  from  the  flowing  bowl 

Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  soul, 

Skoal/  to  the  Northland!  shoal T 

—  Thus  the  tale  ended. 

LcmgfeUmo. 


i:.\  s  nr  Klocutiox.  83 

[From  Family  I  art's  and  Family  Joys.] 

TO  CEOILIA. 

I  must  give  you  portraits  of  all  my  flock  of  children ;  who  now, 
Having  enjoyed  their  evening  meal,  are  laid  to  rest  upon  their  soft 
pillows.  Ah!  if  I  had  only  a  really  good  portrait  —  I  mean  a 
painted  one  —  of  my  Henrik,  my  first  born,  my  summer  child,  as  I 
call  him  —  because  he  was  born  on  a  midsummer-day,  in  the  sum- 
ir.tr  hours  both  of  my  life  and  my  fortune;  but  only  the  pencil  of 
a  Correggio  could  represent  those  beautiful,  kind,  blue  eyes,  those 
golden  locks,  that  loving  mouth,  and  that  all  so  pure  and  beautiful 
countenance  1  Goodness  and  joyfulness  beam  out  from  his  whole 
being;  even  although  his  buoyant  animal  life,  which  seldom  allows 
his  arms  or  legs  to  be  quiet,  often  expresses  itself  in  not  the  most 
agreeable  manner.  My  eleven-years-old  boy  is,  alas!  very  —  his 
father  says  —  very  unmanageable.  Still,  notwithstanding  all  his 
wildness,  he  is  possessed  of  a  deep  and  restless  fund  of  sentiment, 
which  makes  me  often  tremble  for  his  future  happiness.  God 
defend  my  darling,  my  summer  child,  my  only  son !  Oh,  how  dear 
he  is  to  me !  Ernst  warns  me  often  of  too  partial  an  affection  for 
this  child;  and  on  that  very  account  I  will  now  pass  on  from 
N  ■■.  1  to 

ffo.  2. 

Behold  then  the  little  Louise,  our  eldest  daughter,  just  turned  ten 
years  old ;  and  you  will  see  a  grave,  fair  girl,  not  handsome,  but 
with  a  round,  sensible  face;  from  which  I  hope,  by  degrees,  to 
remove  a  certain  ill-tempered  expression.  She  is  uncommonly 
industrious,  and  kind  toward  her  younger  sisters,  although  very 
much  disposed  to  lecture  them ;  nor  will  she  allow  any  opportunity 
<s  in  which  her  importance  as  "eldest  sister"  is  not  observed; 
on  which  account  the  little  ones  give  her  already  the  title  of  "  Your 
Majesty,"  and  "  Mrs.  Judge."  The  little  Louise  appears  to  me  one 
of  those  who  will  always  be  still  and  sure ;  and  who,  on  this  account, 
will  go  fortunately  through  the  world. 

Ko.3. 
People  say  that  my  little  nine-years-old  Eva  is  very  like  he* 
mother.     [ hope  it  may  be  a  real  resemblance.     See,  then,  a  littl.-. 
soft,  round-about  figure,  which,  amid  laughter  and  merrini.tit.  roll* 


84  EXERCISES  IN  ELOCUTION. 

hither  ar.d  thither  lightly  and  nimbly,  with  an  ever-varying  physi- 
ognomy, which  is  rather  plain  than  handsome,  although  lit  up  by  a 
pair  of  beautiful  dark-blue  eyes.  Quickly  moved  to  sorrow,  quickly 
excited  to  joy ;  good-hearted,  flattering,  confection-loving,  pleased 
with  new  and  handsome  clothes,  and  with  dolls  and  play ;  greatly 
beloved,  too,  by  brother  and  sisters,  as  well  as  by  all  the  servants, 
the  best  friend  and  playfellow,  too,  of  her  brother.  Such  is  the 
little  Eva, 

No.  4. 

Noa.  3  and  4  ought  not  properly  to  come  together.  Poor  Lenore 
had  a  sickly  childhood,  and  this  rather,  I  believe,  than  nature,  has 
given  to  her  an  unsteady  and  violent  temper,  and  has  unhappily 
sown  the  seeds  of  envy,  toward  her  more  fortunate  sisters.  She 
is  not  deficient  in  deep  feeling,  but  the  understanding  is  slu 
and  it  is  extremely  difficult  for  her  to  learn  anything.  All  this 
promises  no  pleasure ;  rather  the  very  opposite.  The  expression 
of  her  mouth,  even  in  the  uncomfortable  time  of  teething,  seemed 
*k,  "Let  me  be  quiet  1"  It  is  hardly  possible  that  she  can  be 
other  than  plain,  but,  with  God's  help,  I  hope  to  make  her  good 
and  happy. 

"  My  beloved,  plain  child !"  say  I  sometimes  to  her  as  I  clasp  her 

tenderly  in  my  arms,  for  I  would  willingly  reconcile  her  early  to 

her  fate. 

No.  5. 

But  whatever  will  fate  do  with  the  nose  of  my  Petrea?  This 
nose  is  at  present  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  her ;  and  if  it 
were  not  so  large,  she  really  would  be  a  pretty  child.  We  hope, 
however,  that  it  will  moderate  itself  in  her  growth. 

Petrea  is  a  little  lively  girl,  with  a  turn  for  almost  everything, 
whether  good  or  bad,  and  with  a  dangerous  desire  to  make  herself 
remarkable,  and  to  excite  an  interest.  Her  activity  shows  itself  in 
destructiveness;  yet  she  is  good-hearted  and  most  generous.  In 
every  kind  of  foolery  she  is  a  most  willing  ally  with  Henrik  and 
Eva,  whenever  they  will  grant  her  so  much  favor;  and  if  these 
three  be  heard  whispering  together,  one  may  be  quite  sure  that 
some  roguery  or  other  is  on  foot.  There  exists  already,  however, 
%o  much  unquiet  in  her,  that  I  fear  her  whole  life  will  be  such;  but 
1  will  early  teach  her  to  turn  herself  to  that  which  can  change 
unrest  into  rest 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  86 

No.  6. 

And  now  to  the  pet  child  of  the  house  —  for  the  youngest,  the 
lov.licM,  the  so-called  "little  one"  —  to  her  who  with  her  white 
hands  puts  the  sugar  into  the  father's  and  mother's  cup  —  the  coffee 
without  that  would  not  taste  good  —  to  her  whose  little  bed  is  not 
yet  removed  from  the  chamber  of  the  parents,  and  who,  every 
morning,  creeping  out  of  her  own  bed,  lays  her  bright,  curly  little 
head  on  her  father's  shoulder,  and  sleeps  again. 

Could  you  only  see  the  little  two-years-old  Gabriele,  with  her 
large,  serious  brown  eyes;  her  refined,  somewhat  pale,  but  indes- 
cribably lovely  countenance ;  her  bewitching  little  gestures ;  you 
would  be  just  as  much  taken  with  her  as  the  rest,  you  would  find 
It  difficult,  as  we  all  do,  not  to  show  preference  to  her.  She  is  a 
quiet  little  child,  but  very  unlike  her  eldest  sister.  A  predominating 
characteristic  of  Gabriele  is  love  of  the  beautiful;  she  shows  a 
decided  aversion  to  what  is  ugly  and  inconvenient,  and  as  decided 
a  love  for  what  is  attractive.  A  most  winning  little  gentility  iu 
appearance  and  manners,  has  occasioned  the  brother  and  sisters  to 
call  her  "  the  little  young  lady,"  or  "  the  little  princess."  Henrik 
is  really  in  love  with  his  little  sister,  kisses  her  small  white  hands 
with  devotion,  and  in  return  she  loves  him  with  her  whole  heart. 
Towards  the  others  she  is  very  often  somewhat  ungracious,  and  oui 
good  friend  the  Assessor  calls  her  frequently  "  the  little  gracious 
one,"  and  frequently  also  u  the  little  ungracious  one,"  but  then  he 
has  for  her  especially  so  many  names ;  my  wish  is  that  in  the  end 
she  may  deserve  the  surname  of  u  the  amiable." 

Peace  be  with  my  young  ones !  There  is  not  one  of  them  which 
is  not  possessed  of  the  material  of  peculiar  virtue  and  excellence, 
and  yet  not  also  at  the  same  time  of  the  seed  of  some  dangerous 
vice,  which  may  ruin  the  good  growth  of  God  in  them.  May  the 
endeavors  both  of  their  father  and  me  be  blessed  in  training  these 
plants  of  heaven  aright  I 


86  J:\EKCISE8  IN  ELOCUTION. 

The  Face  against  the  Pan* 
Mabel,  little  Mabel, 
With  her  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night, 
And  sees  the  beacon  light 
A  trembling  in  the  rain. 
She  hears  the  sea  bird  screech, 
And  the  breakers  on  the  beach 
Making  moan,  making  moan, 
And  the  wind  about  the  eaves 
Of  the  cottage  sobs  and  grieves, 
And  the  willow  tree  is  blown 
To  and  fro,  to  and  fro, 
Till  it  seems  like  some  old  crone 
Standing  out  there  all  alone  with  her  woe, 
Wringing  as  she  stands 
Her  gaunt  and  palsied  hands ; 
While  Mabel,  timid  Mabel, 
With  her  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night 
And  sees  the  beacon  light 
A  trembling  in  the  rain. 


Set  the  table,  maiden  Mabel, 

And  make  the  cabin  warm, 

Your  little  fisher  lover 

Is  out  there  in  the  storm ; 

And  your  father,  you  are  weeping, 

0,  Mabel,  timid  Mabel, 

Go  spread  the  supper  table, 

And  set  the  tea  a  steeping; 

Your  lover's  heart  is  brave, 

His  boat  is  staunch  and  tight, 

And  your  father  knows 

The  perilous  reef, 

That  makes  the  water  white. 

But  Mabel,  Mabel  darling, 


Exam  csatt  or  Elocution.  87 

With  her  face  against  the  pane, 
Looks  out  across  the  night 
At  the  beacon  in  the  rain. 


The  heavens  are  veined  with  fire ! 
And  the  thunder  how  it  rolls  1 
In  the  lullings  of  the  storm 
The  solemn  church  bell  tolls 

For  lost  souls  1 
But  no  sexton  sounds  the  knell ; 
In  that  belfry  old  and  high, 
Unseen  fingers  sway  the  bell 
As  the  wind  goes  tearing  by  1 
How  it  tolls,  for  the  souls 
Of  the  sailors  on  the  sea. 
God  pity  them !  God  pity  them ! 
Wherever  they  may  be. 
God  pity  wives  and  sweethearts 
Who  wait  and  wait  in  vain, 
And  pity  little  Mabel, 
With  her  face  against  the  pane ! 


A  boom !  the  light  house  gun, 
How  it  echoes,  rolls  and  rolls, 
'Tis  to  warn  home  bound  ships 

Off  the  shoals. 
See,  a  rook  -  the  sky 

From  the  fort,  a  shaft  of  light  1 
See,  it  fades,  and  fading  leaves 
Golden  furrows  on  the  night! 

cheek  so  pale? 
What  ma  ':•  bitef 

Did  she  see  the  helpless  sail 
That  tossing  here  aud  there 
Like  a  feather  in  the  air, 

t  down  and  out  of  sight, 
n  and  out  of  sight? 


99  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

0,  watch  no  more,  no  more, 
With  foe  against  the  pane  — 
You  cannot  see  the  men  that  drown 
By  the  beacon  in  the  rain  1 

From  a  shoal  of  richest  rubies 
Breaks  the  morning  clear  and  cold, 
And  the  angel  on  the  village  spire, 
Frost  touched,  is  bright  as  gold. 
Four  ancient  fishermen 
In  the  pleasant  autumn  air, 
Come  toiling  up  the  sands, 
With  something  in  their  hands. 
Two  bodies  stark  and  white, 
Ah!  so  ghastly  in  the  light, 
With  sea  weed  in  their  hair. 
0,  ancient  fishermen 
Go  up  to  yonder  cot ! 
You'll  find  a  little  child 
With  face  against  the  pane, 
Who  looks  toward  the  beach 
And  looking  sees  it  not 
She  will  never  watch  again. 
Never  watch  and  wake  at  nighty 
For  those  pretty  saintly  eyes 
Look  beyond  the  stormy  skies, 
And  they  see  the  beacon  light. 


T.  B.  ^Mrttft. 


Mother  and  Poet 
Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Dead!  both  my  boys!  whin  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me ! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 
And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said ; 


K\  9  in  Elocution.  80 

But  tills  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized  here, 

The  east  sea,  and  the  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
Forever  instead  I 

What '8  art  for  a  woman  ?    To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both  darlings  I  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little  1  to  sew  by  degrees, 

And  'broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat  little  coat; 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 

To  teach  them.     It  stings  there :  I  made  them,  indeed, 
Speak  plain  the  word  country,  —  I  taught  them,  no  doubt, 

That  a  country 's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at  need. 
I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  turned  out 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed.     0,  my  beautiful  eyes  1 
I  exulted !     Nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheelR 

Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.    But  then  the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  I  then  one  weeps,  then  one  kneels  I 
—  God  I  how  the  house  feels  1 

At  first  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 
With  my  kisses,  of  camp  life  and  glory,  and  how 

They  both  loved  me,  and  soon,  coming  home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel  bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin,  Ancona  was  free, 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  I     I  fell  down  at  his  feet 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street 

I  bore  it  I  friends  soothed  me;  my  grief  looked  sublime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.     One  boy  yet  remained 
To  be  leant  on,  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  ti 

i  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gai: 


00  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder,  more  strong. 

Writ  now  baft  in  one  band.     I  was  not  to  faint- 
One  loved  me  for  two;  would  be  with  me  ere  long: 

And  "  Viva  Italia"  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
"  Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add  he  "  was  safe  and  aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls,  was  imprest 

It  was  Guido  himself  who  knew  what  I  could  bear 
And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossessed 
To  live  on  for  the  rest" 

On  which  without  pause  up  the  telegraph  line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta: 
Shot.    TelUUs  mother.    Ah !  ah  1  "his,"  "  their"  mother, not "  mine 

No  voice  says  my  mother  again  to  me.     Whatl 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  TTeaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of  woe  ? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  love  and  that  sorrow  that  reconciles  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

0  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'st  thro'  the  dark 

To  the  face  of  thy  mother  1  consider  I  pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 

Whose  sons  not  being  Christ's,  die  with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say  1 

Both  boys  dead  1  but  that's  out  of  nature.     We  all 

Ilave  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep  one. 

'Twere  imbecile  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall. 

And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah!  ahl  ah!  when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then? 

WTien  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 


//.\  ■    ■■■    I       'Vtion.  91 

Of  the  fire-balls  of  death,  crashing  souls  out  of  men, 
When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort, 
Have  cut  the  game  short. 

Winn  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  green  white  and  red, 

When  you  have  a  country  from  mountain  to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
And  I  have  my  dead. 

What  then  ?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah  I  ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly.     My  country  is  there, 

Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow ; 
My  Italy's  there,  with  my  brave  civic  pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair. 

Dead!  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  west, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  east  by  the  sea. 
Both  1  both  my  boys !     If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

Mrs.  Browning, 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaklava. 
I. 
Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 

All  in  the  Valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! 

Charge  for  the  guns  1  "  he  said : 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

E 

"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 

Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 

Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 


02  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  Valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

m. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  hell, 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

IV. 
Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  Six  Hundred. 

V. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 


krcises  in  Elocution.  93 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  Six  Hundred. 


VI 
When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
0  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred. 


May  Days. 
In  sweet  May  time,  so  long  ago, 
I  stood  by  the  big  wheel  spinning  tow, 
Buzz,  buzz,  so  very  slow  ; 
Dr-rk,  rough  logs  from  the  ancient  trees, 
Fire-place  wide  for  the  children's  glees. 


Above  the  smoky  boards  and  beams, 

Down  through  the  crevice  poured  golden  gleams, 

Till  the  wheel  dust  glimmered  like  diamond  dreams ; 

Mother  busy  with  household  care, 

Baby  playing  with  upturned  chairs, 

Old  clock  telling  how  fast  time  wears. 


These  within.    Out  under  the  sky 

1  mists  were  sailing,  birds  flitting  by 
Joyous  children  playing  "I  spy." 
Up  from  the  earth  curled  leaves  were  coming, 
Bees  in  the  morning  sunshine  humming, 
Away  in  the  woods  the  partridge  drumming. 


94  EXMBOIBMB  Of  ELOOOTfOM, 

0,  how  I  longed  to  burst  away 
From  my  dull  task  to  the  outer  day ; 
But  we  were  poor  and  I  must  stay. 
So  buzz  1  buzz  I  —  'twas  very  slow, 
Drawing  threads  from  the  shining  tow, 
When  the  heart  was  dancing  so. 

Then  hope  went  spinning  a  brighter  thread, 
On,  on,  through  life's  long  lane  it  led, 
A  path  my  feet  should  one  day  tread. 
So  pleasant  thoughts  would  time  beguile, 
Till  ray  mother  said,  with  beaming  smile, 
"  My  child  may  rest,  I  will  reel  awhile." 

Kest  1  '  twas  the  rest  that  childhood  takes, 
Off  over  fences  and  fragrant  brakes, 
To  the  wilds,  where  the  earliest  woodland  fling* 
Spring  of  the  year,  and  life's  sweet  spring, 
Words  are  poor  for  the  thoughts  ye  bring. 

But  ye  come  together  to  me  no  more, 

Your  twin  steps  rest  on  the  field  of  yore, 

Ye  are  mine  on  yonder  immortal  shore. 

1  Twas  hard  to  leave  those  bright  May  days, 

The  mossy  path,  and  leafy  maze 

For  common  work,  and  humdrum  ways. 

But  my  steps  were  turned,  I  was  up  the  lane, 

Back  to  the  buzzing  wheel  again, 

My  yarn  had  finished  the  ten  knot  skein ; 

And  my  gentle  mother  stroked  my  head, 

"  Your  yarn  is  very  nice,"  she  said, 

"  It  will  make  a  beautiful  tablespread." 

"  You  are  my  good  girl  to  work  so  well," 
Great  thoughts  my  childish  heart  would  swell, 
'Till  the  happy  tears  like  rain  drops  fell. 
I  would  toil  for  her,  I  would  gather  lore, 
From  many  books  a  mighty  store, 
And  pay  her  kindness  o'er  and  o'er. 


&XSBCISB8  /.v  E Locution.  95 

She  should  work  no  more  at  wheel  or  loom, 
My  earnings  should  give  her  a  cozy  room, 
i  for  the  winter's  gloom, 
A   soft  arm  chair  for  her  weary  hours, 
Books  and  music,  pictures,  flowers. 

So  the  sweet  dream  ran,  as  the  wheel  buzzed  on, 
'Till  the  golden  gleams  of  light  were  gone, 
And  the  chilling  rain  came  dripping  down, 
Ah  I  my  heart  has  it  e'er  been  so, 
Cold  clouds  shading  life's  sunniest  glow, 
Warm  hopes  drowned  in  the  cold  wave's  flow. 

In  the  same  low  room  my  mother  pressed, 
Each  child  to  her  softly  hearing  breast, 
And  closed  her  eyes  and  went  to  rest 
The  old  walls  crumbled  long  ago, 
Hushed  the  big  wheel's  buzzing  slow, 
Worn  to  shreds  is  the  shining  tow. 

•  ith  the  bursting  leaves  and  flowers, 
The  gushing  songs  and  pearly  showers, 
Life  brightens  as  in  childhood's  hours, 
And  hope  this  golden  morn  in  May 
Spins  golden  threads  that  float  away 
To  a  heavenly  home  that  is  bright  for  aye. 


Scrooge  and  Marley. 

Marley  was  dead  to  begin  with.     There  is  no  doubt  whatever 

about  that     The  register  of  his  burial  was  signed  by  the  ok 

man,  the  clerk,  the  undertaker,  and  the  chief  mourner.     Scrooge 

I  it:  and  Scrooge's  name  was  good  upon  'Change,  for  any- 

to  put  his  hand  to.     Old  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a 

door-nail. 

Mind !  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  know,  of  my  own  knowledge, 
what  there  is  particularly  dead  about  a  door-naiL     I  might  have 
been  inclined,  myself,  to  regard  a  coffin-nail  as  the  doadoit 
of  ironmongery  in  the  trade.     But  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors  is 
5 


96  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

in  the  simile ;  and  my  unhallowed  hands  shall  not  disturb  it,  or  the 
Country's  done  for.  You  will  therefore  permit  me  to  repeat, 
emphatically,  that  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a  door-nail 

Scrooge  knew  he  was  dead  ?  Of  course  he  did.  How  could  it 
be  otherwise?  Scrooge  and  he  were  partners  for  I  don't  know 
how  many  years.  Scrooge  was  his  sole  executor,  his  sole  adminis- 
trator his  sole  assign,  his  sole  residuary  legatee,  his  sole  friend,  and 
■ole  mourner.  And  even  Scrooge  was  not  so  dreadfully  cut  up  by 
the  sad  event,  but  that  he  was  an  excellent  man  of  business  on  the 
very  day  of  the  funeral,  and  solemnized  it  with  an  undoubted  bar- 
gain. 

Scrooge  never  painted  out  old  Marley's  name.  There  it  stood, 
years  afterwards,  above  the  warehouse  door :  Scrooge  and  Marley. 
The  firm  was  known  as  Scrooge  and  Marley.  Sometimes  people 
new  to  the  business  called  Scrooge  Scrooge,  and  sometimes  Marley, 
but  he  answered  to  both  names :  it  was  all  the  same  to  him. 

Oh  1  But  he  was  a  tight-fisted  hand  at  the  grindstone,  Scrooge  1 
a  squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping,  scraping,  clutching,  covetous  old 
sinner  1  Hard  and  sharp  as  flint,  from  which  no  steel  had  ever 
struck  out  generous  fire ;  secret  and  self-contained,  and  solitary  as 
an  oyster.  The  cold  within  him  froze  his  old  features,  nipped  his 
pointed  nose,  shriveled  his  cheek,  stiffened  his  gait ;  made  his  eyes 
red,  his  thin  lips  blue ;  and  spoke  out  shrewdly  in  his  grating  voice. 
A  frosty  rime  was  on  his  head,  and  on  his  eyebrows,  and  his  wiry 
chin.  He  carried  his  own  low  temperature  always  about  with 
him;  he  iced  his  office  in  the  dog-days;  and  didn't  thaw  it  one 
degree  at  Christmas. 

External  heat  and  cold  had  little  influence  on  Scrooge.  No 
warmth  could  warm,  nor  wintry  weather  chill  him.  No  wind  that 
blew  was  bitterer  than  he,  no  falling  snow  was  more  intent  upon 
its  purpose,  no  pelting  rain  less  open  to  entreaty.  Foul  weather 
didn't  know  where  to  have  him.  The  heaviest  rain,  and  snow, 
and  hail,  and  sleet,  could  boast  of  the  advantage  over  him  in  only 
one  respect  They  often  "  came  down  "  handsomely,  and  Scrooge 
never  did. 

Nobody  ever  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say,  with  gladsome 
looks,  "  My  dear  Scrooge,  how  are  you  ?  when  will  you  come  to 
see  me  ?  "     No  beggars  implored  him  to  bestow  a  trifle,  no  children 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  97 

askeil  him  what  it  was  o'clock,  no  man  or  woman  ever  once  in  all 
his  life  inquired  the  way  to  such  and  such  a  place,  of  Scrooge. 

:  the  blind-men's  dogs  appeared  to  know  him ;  and  when  they 
saw  him  coming  on,  would  tug  their  owners  into  doorways  and  up 
courts ;  and  then  would  wag  their  tails  as  though  they  said,  "  no 
eye  at  all  is  better  than  an  evil  eye,  dark  master  I  " 

But  what  did  Scrooge  care?     It  was  the  very  thing  he  liked. 
To  edge  his  way  along  the  crowded  paths  of  life,  warning  all 

IB  sympathy  to  keep  its  distance,  was  what  the  knowing  ones 
call  "  nuts  "  to  Scrooge. 

Dicker* 


Passing  Away. 

L 

Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell, 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ?— 
I lark!  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play, 
Are  set  to  words:  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"Passing  away  I  passing  awayl" 


n. 

But,  no ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear: 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell 

Striking  the  hours  that  fell  on  my  enr, 
As  I  lay  yi  D  :  yet  was  it  a  chime 

That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  Time ; 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hang, 
And  a  plump  little  girl  for  a  pendulum,  swung ; 


08  krcises  in  Elocution. 

(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary  bird  swing ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  I  passing  away  1" 


m. 

Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time  as  they  moved  round  slow ! 
And  the  hands  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo!  she  had  changed;  —  in  a  few  short  hours, 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  hot  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fullness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride ; 

Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Passing  away  I  passing  away  1" 


IV. 

While  I  gazed  on  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 

Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimmed  —  as  when  evening  steals 
Upon  noon's  hot  face :  —  yet  one  couldn't  but  love  her  ; 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first  babe  lay 
Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day ; 
And  she  seemed  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 


v  Eloci 


90 


V. 
While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  camel 

•ye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan; 
Stooping  and  stalled  was  her  withered  frame, 

Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on: 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crook'd  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept ; 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shriveled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, 
(Let  me  never  forget,  to  my  dying  day, 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  that  lay)  — 

"  PASSINO  AWAY  1    PASSING  AWAY  1" 


Sheridan's  Bide, 
L 
Up  from  tne  south  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  —  twenty  miles  away. 

n. 

And  wilder  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar, 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  —  twenty  miles  away. 


PierjHjm. 


m 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down ; 


100  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed,  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight  — 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed ; 

II  ilis  rose  and  fell  —  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

IV. 
Still  sprung  from  these  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 
The  dust,  like  the  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet  sweeping  faster  and  fas; 
Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster ; 
The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 

ry  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play 
With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

V. 
Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind ; 
And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire. 
But  lo !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire  — 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

VL 
The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops ;  — 
What  was  done  —  what  to  do  —  a  glance  told  him  both, 
Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  muttered  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzahs, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there  because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray ; 


ncTSEs  in  Ewcxhx&tC  101 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  hi*  red  no'slrl's  play. 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  /  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down  to  save  the  day  /" 

m 

Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky,  — 
The  American  soldier's  temple  of  Fame,  — 
There,  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 
Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright : 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight 
From  Winchester  —  Ucenty  miles  away  /" 

T.  B.  Reaa. 

The  Night  Scene  in  Macbeth. 

Lady  MacbeiKs  Room  in  the  Castle  at  Dunsinane. 

Enter  Gentlewoman  and  Physician. 

Phy.  I  have  two  nights  watched  with  you,  but  can  perceive  no 
truth  in  your  report     When  was  it  she  last  walked  ? 

Gent.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have  seen  her  rise 
from  her  bed,  throw  her  night-gown  upon  her,  unlock  her  closet, 
take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write  upon  it,  read  it,  afterwards  seal  it, 
and  again  return  to  bed ;  yet  all  this  while  in  a  most  fast  sleep. 

Phy.  What  at  any  time  have  you  heard  her  say  ? 

OenL  That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 

Phy.  You  may  to  me ;  and  'tis  most  meet  you  should. 

Oent.  Neither  to  you,  nor  any  one;  having  no  witness  to  con- 
firm my  ■pootih  — Lo  you,  here  she  comes !     This  is  her  very  guise 
and,  upon  my  life,  fast  asleep.     Observe  her ;  stand  close. 

v   M  acbeth,  with  a  Taper. 
Diy.  How  came  she  by  that  light? 

Oent.  Why,  it  stood  by  her;  she  has  light  by  her  continually; 
'tis  her  command. 

Phy.  You  see  her  eyes  are  open  ? 


102  ;s>:s  ix  Elocutiox. 

*  .*  ■ 
Gent.  Kj]  but  thtelf  sense  is  shut. 

Phy.  What  is  it  she  does  now  ?     Look,  how  she  rubs  her  hands. 

Gent.  It  is  an  accustomed  action  with  her,  to  seem  thus  washing 
her  hands;  T  have  known' her  continue  in  this  a  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

Lady  |£  Tet  here's  a  spot 

Phy.  Hark !  she  speaks. 

Lady  M.  Out,  terrible  spot  I  out,  I  say!  —  One:  Two:  Why, 
then,  'tis  time  to  do't! —  Hell  is  murky!  —  Fie,  my  lord,  fie!  a 
soldier,  and  afeard?  what  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none 
can  call  our  power  to  account?  —  Yet  who  would  have  thought 
the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ? 

Phy.  Do  you  mark  that? 

Lad  Thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife;  where  is  she  now?  — 

What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean !  —  No  more  o'  that,  my 
lord;  no  more  o'  that;  you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Phy.  Go  to,  go  to ;  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 

Gent.  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of  that; 
Heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 

/  M.  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  all  the  perfumes  of 
Arabia  will  not  sweetm  this  little  hand.     Oh!  oh!  oh! 

Phy.  What  a  sigh  is  there !     The  heart  is  sorely  charged. 

Gent.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom,  for  the  dignity 
of  the  whole  body. 

Lady  M.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  night-gown ;  look  not 
so  pale  :  —  I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo's  buried ;  he  cannot  come 
out  of  his  grave. 

Phy.  Even  so. 

Lady  M.  To  bed,  to  bed :  there's  knocking  at  the  gate.  Come, 
come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand:  what's  done,  cannot  be 
undone :  To  bed,  to  bed,  to  bed.  [Exit. 

Phy.  Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Gent  Directly. 

Phy.  More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. — 

Look  after  her ; 

Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance, 

And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her. — 

Good  Heaven,  forgive  us  all ! 

Shatojxar*. 


Ex j  in  Elocution.  108 

BRIEF  EXTRACTS. 

The  Nature  of  True  Eloquence. 

True  eloquence  does  not  consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought 
from  far.  Labor  and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in 
yain.  Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshaled  in  every  way,  but 
they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the  subject, 
and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense  expression,  the 
pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  it, — they  cannot  reach 
it  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the  outbreaking  of  a  fountain 
from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting  forth  of  volcanic  fret,  with  spon- 
taneous, original,  native  force.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools, 
the  costly  ornaments  and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock 
and  disgust  men,  when  their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives, 
tluir  children,  and  their  country  hang  on  the  decision  of  the  hour. 
Tin  n  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is  vain,  and  all  elabo- 
rate oratory  contemptible.  Even  genius  itself  then  feels  rebuked 
and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of  higher  qualities.  Then  patriot- 
ism is  eloquent ;  then  self-devotion  is  eloquent.  The  clear  con- 
in,  outrunning  the  deductions  of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the 
firm  resolve,  the  dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming 
from  tho  eye,  informing  every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole  man 
onward,  right  onward,  to  his  object, — this,  this  is  eloquence ;  or, 
rather,  it  is  something  greater  and  higher  than  all  eloquence  :  it  is 
action,  noble,  sublime,  God-like  action. 

Zta  *d  Webster. 


Self-Reliance. 

ist  on  yourself;  never  imitate.  Your  own  gift  ;  ,»u  can  pre- 
sent every  moment  with  the  cumulative  force-  of  a  whole  life's 
cultivation  ;  but  of  the  adopted  talent  of  another  yi  u  have  only 
an  extemporaneous,  half  possession.  That  which  <ach  can  do 
best,  none  but  his  Maker  can  teach  him.  No  man  yet  knows 
what  it  is,  nor  can,  till  that  person  has  exhibited  it.  Where  is 
the  master  who  could  have  taught  Shakspeare  ?  "Where  is  the 
master  who  could  have  instructed  Franklin,  or  Washington,  or 
Bacon,  or  Newton  ?    Every  great  man  is  a  unique. 

5*  Ralvk  WmUlo 


104  BXMROBUm  in  Elocution. 

The  Brain. 

Our  brains  are  seventy-year  clocks.  The  Angel  of  Life  winds 
them  up  once  for  all,  then  closes  the  case,  and  gives  the  key  into 
the  hands  of  the  Angel  of  the  Resurrection. 

Tic-tac !  tic-tac  !  go  the  wheels  of  thought ;  our  will  cannot 
itop  them  ;  tin  y  cannot  stop  themselves ;  sleep  cannot  still  them  ; 
madness  only  makes  them  go  faster ;  -death  alone  can  break  into 
the  case,  and,  seizing  the  ever-swinging  pendulum,  which  we  caU 
the  heart,  silence  at  last  the  clicking  of  the  terrible  escapement 
we  have  carried  so  long  beneath  our  wrinkled  forehca 

ORier  WendeU  Holme*. 


The  Burning  Prairie. 
I 
The  prairie  stretched  as  smooth  as  a  floor, 

As  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
And  the  settler  sat  at  his  cabin  door, 

With  his  little  girl  on  his  knee; 
Striving  her  letters  to  repeat  — 
And  pulling  her  apron  over  her  feet 

n. 

His  face  was  wrinkled  but  not  old, 

For  he  bore  an  upright  form, 
And  his  shirt  sleeves  back  to  the  elbow  rolled, 

They  showed  a  brawny  arm. 
And  near  in  the  grass  with  toes  upturned, 
■  pair  of  old  shoes  cracked  and  burned. 

m 

A  dog  with  his  head  betwixt  his  paws, 

Lay  lazily  dozing  near, 
Now  and  then  snapping  Ins  tar  black  jaws, 
At  the  fly  that  buzzed  in  his  ear. 
And  near  was  the  cow-pen  made  of  rails, 
And  a  bench  that  held  two  milking  pails. 


Exercisks  in  Elocution.  191 

IV. 

In  the  open  door  an  ox  yoke  lay, 

The  mother's  odd  redoubt, 
To  keep  the  little  one  at  her  play 

On  the  floor  from  falling  out, 
While  she  swept  the  hearth  with  a  turkey  wing, 
And  filled  her  tea  kettle  at  the  spring. 

V. 
The  little  girl  on  her  father's  knee. 

With  eyes  so  bright  and  blue, 
From  A,  B,  C,  to  X,  Y,  Z, 

I  hid  said  her  lesson  through. 
When  a  wind  came  over  the  prairie  land, 
And  caught  the  primer  out  of  her  hand. 

VI 
The  watch  dog  whined,  the  cattle  lowed, 

And  tossed  their  horns  about, 
The  air  grew  gray  as  if  it  snowed, 

"  There  will  be  a  storm  no  doubt," 
So  to  himself  the  settler  said, 
"  But,  father,  why  is  the  sky  so  red  ?" 

vn. 

The  little  girl  slid  off  his  knee, 

And  all  of  a  tremble  stood. 
u  Good  wife,"  he  cried,  "  come  out  and  see, 

The  skies  are  as  red  as  blood." 
"  God  save  us  f '    cried  (he  settler's  wife, 
"  The  prairie's  a-fire,  we  must  run  for  life  I" 

vm 

She  caught  the  baby  up,  "  Come, 

Are  ye  mad  ?  to  your  heels  my  man. 
He  followed  terror  stricken,  dumb,     , 

And  so  they  ran  and  ran, 
Close  upon  them  was  the  snort  and  iwing, 
Of  buffaloes  madly  galloping. 


106  //.v  9  nr  Elocution, 

IX. 

The  wild  winds  like  a  sower  sows, 

The  ground  with  sparkles  red, 
And  the  flapping  wings  of  bats  and  crows, 

And  the  ashes  OTerhead ; 
And  the  bellowing  deer,  and  the  hissing  snake, 
What  a  swirl  of  terrible  sounds  they  make. 

X. 
No  gleam  of  the  river  water  yet, 

And  the  flames  leap  on  and  on, 
A  crash  and  a  fiercer  whirl  and  jet, 

And  the  settler's  house  is  gone. 
The  air  grows  hot;  "  this  fluttering  curl, 
Would  burn  like  flax,"  said  the  little  girL 

XL 

And  as  the  srnoke  against  her  drifts, 

And  the  lizard  slips  close  by  her 
She  tells  how  the  little  cow  uplifts 
Her  speckled  face  from  the  fire. 
For  she  cannot  be  hindered  from  looking  back. 
At  the  fiery  dragon  on  their  track. 

XII 
They  hear  the  crackling  grass  and  sedge, 

The  flames  as  they  whir  and  rav«-, 
On!  on !  they  are  close  to  the  water's  edge; 

They  are  there  breast  deep  in  the  wave, 
And  lifting  their  little  ones  high  o'er  the  tide, 
"  We're  saved,  thank  God,  we're  saved,"  they  cried  1 

Alice.  Ctry 


The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin. 
Hamelin  Town's  iu  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city; 
The  river  Weser,  deep  and  wide, 
Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side; 


A  pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied; 

But,  when  begina  my  ditty, 
Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 
To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 

From  vermin,  was  a  pity. 

Rats! 
They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 

And  bit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 
And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook's  own  ladlet, 
Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 
Made  nests  inside  men's  Sunday  hats, 
And  even  spoiled  the  women's  chats, 

By  drowning  their  speaking 

With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

At  last  the  people  in  a  body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking: 
M'T  is  clear,"  cried  they,  "our  Mayor's  a  noddy  ; 

I  as  for  our  Corporation,  —  shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can't  or  won't  determine 
What's  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin  I 
You  hope,  because  you're  old  and  obese, 
To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease? 
Rouse  up,  Sirs!     Give  your  brains  a  racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we're  lacking, 
Or,  sure  as  fate,  we'll  send  you  packing  1" 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 

1  with  a  mighty  consternation. 
An  hour  they  sat  in  council, 

•ngth  the  Mayor  broke  silence; 
"  For  a  guilder  I'd  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I  wish  I  were  a  mile  hence  I 
It's  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one's  brain, 
I'm  sure  my  po< 
Fva  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 


108  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

0  for  a  trap,  a  trap,  a  trap !" 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door,  but  a  gentle  tap! 
"  Bless  us,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  what's  that? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a  rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit  a  pat  1" 
"Come  in!"  the  Mayor  cried,  looking  bigger: 
And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ; 
His  queer,  long  coat  from  heels  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red; 
And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin, 
With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a  pin, 
And  light,  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin, 
No  tufl  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 
But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in, 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  or  kin ; 
And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire; 
Quoth  one:  "  It's  as  my  great-grand-sire, 
Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom's  tone, 
Had  wall;  *J  from  his  painted  tomb  stoneT 

*    He  advanced  to  the  council-table : 

And,  "  Please  your  honors,"  said  he,  "  I'm  able, 

By  means  of  a  secret  charm,  to  draw 

All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  1 

And  I  chiefly  use  my  charm 

On  creatures  that  do  people  harm, 

The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper; 

And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper," 

"  Yet,"  said  he,  "  poor  piper  as  I  am, 

In  Tartary  I  freed  the  Cham 

Last  June  from  his  huge  swarms  of  gnats; 

1  eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a  monstrous  brood  of  vampyre-bats : 
And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders, 
If  I  can  rid  your  town  of  rats 
Will  you  give  me  a  thousand  guilders  ?" 


ROS0Z8MB  in  Elocution.  109 

*  One  ?  filly  thousand !"  —  was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a  little  smile, 
As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 

In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered ; 
And  the  muttering  grew  to  a  grumbling ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a  mighty  rumbling, 
And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tumbling, 
Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rata, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  gray  rats,  tawny  rata, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gray  young  friskers, 
Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 
Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 
Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives  — 
Followed  the  piper  for  their  lives. 
From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished. 
You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple ; 
"  Go,"  cried  the  Mayor,  "  and  get  long  poles  I 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  bui' 
And  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a  trace 
Of  the  rats!"  —  when  suddenly  up  the  face 
Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With,  "first,  if  you  please,  my  thousand  guilders." 
A  thousand  guilders ;  the  Mayor  looked  blue 
And  so  did  the  corporation  too, 
"  Beside,"  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a  knowing  wink, 
"Our  business  was  done  at  the  river  brink. 
We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 
And  what's  dead  can't  come  to  life,  I  think. 
A  thousand  guilders!  Come  take  fifty  " 


1 1 0  kr cisbs  m  III ocutio*. 

The  Piper's  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

"  No  trifling !  Folks  who  put  me  in  a  passion 

May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion." 


Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes, 

There  was  a  rustling,  that  seemed  like  a  bustling 

Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and  hustling, 

Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes  clattering, 

Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues  chattering, 

And,  like  fowls  in  a  farm-yard  when  barley  is  scattering, 

Out  came  the  children  running. 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 

Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 

The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and  laughter. 

When  lo !  as  they  reached  the  mountain's  side, 

A  wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a  cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed ; 

Ami  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children  followed, 

And  when  all  were  in  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast, 

Alas  I  alas  for  Hamelin  1 

There  came  into  many  a  burgher's  pate 

A  text  which  says,  that  Heaven's  Gate 

Opes  to  the  Rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle's  eye  takes  a  camel  in  I 
The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North  and  South 
To  offer  the  Piper  by  word  of  mouth, 

Wherever  it  was  men's  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart's  content, 
If  he'd  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 
But  soon  they  saw  't  was  a  lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  forever. 


/: i  /  ,  ( rsES  in  Elocution.  1 1 1 

And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  Children's  last  retreat^ 
They  called  it,  the  Pied  Piper*!  Street,  — 
ire  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 
And  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 

wrote  the  story  on  a  column, 
And  on  the  Great  Church  Window  painted 

irae,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away; 
And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 

Robert  Browning. 


Psalm  xc 

Loud,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling  place  in  all  generations. 

Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst 
formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  everlasting  to  everlast- 
ing, thou  art  God. 

Thou  turnest  man  to  destruction ;  and  sayest,  Return,  ye  children 
of  men. 

r  a  thousand  years  in  thy  sight  are  but  as  yesterday  when  it 
t,  and  as  a  watch  in  the  night 

Thou  earnest  them  away  as  with  a  flood ;  they  are  as  a  sleep ; 
in  the  morning  they  are  like  grass  which  groweth  up. 

In  the  morning  it  flourishcth,  and  groweth  up;  in  the  evening 
Bt  down,  tnd  withereth. 

For  we  are  consumed  by  thine  anger,  and  by  thy  wrath  are  we 
troubled. 

Thou  hast  set  our  iniquities  before  thee,  our  secret  sins  in  the 
light  of  thy  countenance. 

For  all  our  days  are  passed  away  in  thy  wrath :  we  spend  our 
years  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

The  days  of  our  years  are  threescore  years  and  ten ;  and  il 
by  reason  of  strength  they  be  fourscore  years,  yet  is  their  strength 
labor  and  sorrow ;  for  it  is  soon  cut  off,  and  we  fly  stray. 

Who  knoweth  the  power  of  thine  anger?  even  according  to  thy 
fear,  so  is  thy  wrath. 

So  teach  us  to  number  our  days,  that  we  may  apply  our  hearts 
unto 


112  Exercises  tv  Elocutiox. 

Return,  0  Lord,  how  long?  and  let  it  repent  thee  concerning 
tny  servants. 

0  satisfy  us  early  with  thy  mercy ;  that  we  may  rejoice  and  be 
glad  all  our  days. 

Make  us  glad  according  to  the  days  wherein  thou  hast  afflicted 
us,  and  the  years  wherein  we  have  seen  evil. 

thy  work  appear  unto  thy  servants,  and  thy  glory  unto  their 
children. 

A  n  I  let  the  beauty  of  the  Lord  our  God  be  upon  us :  and  estab- 
lish thou  the  work  of  our  hands  upon  us ;  yea,  the  work  of  our 
oands  establish  thou  it 


Ivry. 
Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre  1 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  0  pleasant  land  of 

France ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  murmuring  daughters ; 
4^.8  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy ; 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah!  Hurrah!  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war  I 
Hurrah  1  Hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Oh !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
\W  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land; 
And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon  in  his  hand ; 
And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  ot  Seine's  empurpled  flood, 
And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 
To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  dressed ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest 


/nan  /.v  Elocution.  118 

He  locked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye, 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

variously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  God  save  our  lord  the  King? 
"And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may  — 
For  never  I  saw  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray — 

I  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine  amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 
And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah!  the  foes  are  moving.     Hark  to  the  mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin. 

The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  —  upon  them  with  the  lance! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours:  Mayenne  hath  turned  his 

rein; 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter ;  the  Flemish  count  is  slain ; 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all  along  our  van, 

Btber  Saint  Bartholomew!  was  passed  from  man  to  man. 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  —  "No  Frenchman  is  my  foe: 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go" — 
Oh  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre  ? 

it  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France  to-day; 
And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 
ire  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 
the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white  — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  oornet  white  hath  in> 

:i  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 


114  BtrntCZSEB  /v   Er.ncUTlox. 

Up  with  it  high;  unfurl  it  wide  —  that  all  the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought  his  church 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  point  of 

war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  foot-cloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna  1  ho!  matrons  of  Lucerne  — 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return. 

Ho !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 

souls. 
Ho !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright ; 
Ho!  burghers  of  St  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night; 
For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the  slave 
And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 
Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are; 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Macaulcty 


Gaffer  Gray. 
Ho !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake,  Gaffer  Gray  ? 
**  1  And  why  does  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ?"— 


■4 


With  the 

tremulous 

■OtM  <>f 

age. 


"'Tis  the  weather  that's  cold, 
"'Tis  I'm  grown  very  old, 


And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new;  Well-a-day  P 


"  Then  line  thy  warm  doublet  with  ale,  Gaffer  Gray, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass!" 
"  Xay,  but  credit  I've  none, 
And  my  money's  all  gone ; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? — Well-a-day  ! 

"  Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow,  Gaffer  Gray, 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door." 
"The  priest  often  preaches 
"  Against  worldly  riches, 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, —  Well-a-day ! " 


J.  I  j.\    EhQ  115 

"The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill,  Gaffer  Gray; 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front" 
"  He  will  fasten  his  locks 
And  threaten  the  stocks, 
Should  he  ever  more  find  me  in  want;  —  Well-a-day  1 " 

4  The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale,  Gaffer  Gray ; 
And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there." 
"  His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer 

And  his  merry  new  year, 
Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair,— Well-a-day  I  " 

"My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess,  Gaffer  Gray; 
What  then  ?  while  it  lasts,  man,  we'll  live  1 " 
"  The  poor  man  alone, 

When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, —  Well-a-day  I " 

Holcrqfl. 


Auld  Eobin  Gray. 
Wdkn  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  sleep  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  ee, 
When  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  socht  me  for  his  bride, 
But, saving  a  croun.he  had  naething  else  bet 
To  mak'  that  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea, 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna'  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  the  cow  was  stown  awa ; 
My  father  brak  his  arm,  and  young  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  Auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a-courtin  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin, 
I  toiled  day  and  nieht,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win, 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and  wi'  lean  in  his  ee, 
'  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  oh,  marry  me!" 


116  Exercises  ix  JZlocutiox. 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  looked  for  Jamie  back  , 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wrack ! 
The  ship  it  was  a  wrack  —  why  didna  Jennie  dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  say,  "  Wae's  me  ?" 

My  father  argued  sair ;  my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  lookit  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break ; 
Sae  they  gied  him  my  hand,  though  ray  heart  was  in  the  sea , 
And  Auld  Robin  Gray  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 

When  sitting  sae  mournfully  at  the  door, 

I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he  — 

Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  back  for  to  marry  thee." 

0  sair  did  we  greet,  and  rauckle  did  we  say ; 

We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away ; 

1  wish  I  were  dead  I  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee ; 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  "  Wae's  me  ?" 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  care  na  to  spin  ; 

I  daur  na  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin ; 

But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 

For  Auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnanx 


Christian  Mariner's  Hymn. 
Launch  thy  bark,  Mariner ; 

Christian,  God  speed  thee  I 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands ; 

Good  angels  lead  thee  I 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempest  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily ; 

Christian,  steer  home  I 


Look  to  the  weather-bow, 
Breakers  are  round  thee ; 

Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 
Shallows  may  ground  thee 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  117 

Reef  in  the  foresail  there  ; 

Hold  the  holm  fast ! 
So  —  let  tlu-  rettel  wear; 

There  swept  the  blast 

44  What  of  the  night,  watchman, 

What  of  the  night r 
"  Cloudy  —  all  quiet ; 

No  land  yet  —  all's  right" 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant; 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How  gains  the  leak  so  fast? 

Clean  out  the  hold; 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 
There  1  let  the  ingots  go ; 

Now  the  ship  rights; 
Hurrah!  the  harbor's  near, — 

Lol  the  red  lights  1 

Slacken  not  sail  yet, 

At  inlet  or  island; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land  ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on  ; 

Cut  through  the  foam :  — 
Christian !  cast  anchor,  now ; 

Heaven  is  thy  home  I 

Afrt.  <*kj<V* 


i  1 3  krcises  in  Elocution. 

Scenes  from  the  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life. 

Tiik  rite  of  baptism  had  not  b  rmed  for  several  months  al 

the  kirk  of  Lanark.     It  was  now  t:  time  of  persecution; 

and  the  inhabitants  of  that  parisli  found  other  places  in  which  to 
worship  God,  and  celebrate  the  ordinances  of  religion.  It  was  the 
Sabbath  day, — and  a  small  congregation,  of  about  a  hundred  souls, 
had  met  for  divine  service  in  a  place  of  worship  more  magnificent 
-v  temple  that  human  hands  had  ever  built  to  Deity.  Here, 
too,  were  three  children  about  to  be  baptized.  The  congregation 
had  not  assembled  at  the  toll  of  the  bell ;  but  each  heart  knew  the 
hour  and  observed  it ;  for  there  are  a  hundred  sun-dials  among 
the  hills,  woods,  moors  and  fields,  and  the  shepherds  and  the  peas- 
ants see  the  hours  passing  by  them  in  sunshine  and  shadow. 

The  church  in  which  they  were  assembled  was  hewn  by  God's 
hand  out  of  the  eternal  rocks.  A  river  rolled  its  way  through  a 
mighty  chasm  of  cliffs,  several  hundred  feet  high,  of  which  one  side 

ted  enormous  masses,  and  the  other  corresponding  re© 
as  if  the  great  stone  girdle  had  been  rent  by  a  convulsion.  The 
channel  was  overspread  with  prodigious  fragments  of  rocks  or  large 
loose  stones,  some  of  them  smooth  and  bare,  others  containing  soil 
dure  in  their  rents  and  fissures,  and  here  and  there  crowned 
with  shrubs  and  trees. 

The  eye  could  at  once  command  a  long  stretching  vista,  seem- 
ingly closed  and  shut  up  at  both  extremities,  by  the  coalescing  cliffs. 
This  majestic  reach  of  river  contained  pools,  streams,  rushing  shelves, 
and  waterfalls  innumerable;  and  when  the  water  was  low,  which  it 
now  was  in  the  common  drought,  it  was  easy  to  walk  up  this  scene 
with  the  calm  blue  sky  overhead,  an  utter  and  sublime  solitude. 

On  looking  up,  the  soul  was  bowed  down  by  the  feeling  of  that 
prodigious  heigh th  of  unscalable  and  often  overhanging  cliffs.  Winged 
creatures  alone  could  inhabit  this  region.  The  fox  and  wild-ca 
chose  more  accessible  haunts.  Yet,  here  came  the  persecuted 
Christians,  and  worshiped  God,  whose  hand  hung  over  their  heads 
those  magnificent  pillars  and  arches,  scooped  out  those  galleries 
from  the  solid  rock,  and  laid  at  their  feet  the  calm  water  in  its 
transparent  beauty,  in  which  they  could  see  themselves  sitting  in 
reflected  groups,  with  their  Bibles  in  their  hands. 


A'.\  '  UTION.  1  1  B 

Tlie  rite  of  baptism  was  over,  and  the  religious  service  of  the  day 
closed  by  a  psalm.  The  mighty  rocks  hemmed  in  the  holy  sound, 
and  sent  it,  in  more  compacted  volume,  clear,  sweet,  and  strong,  up 
to  heaven.      When   the   psalm   o-as.-d.  an   echo,  like  a  spirit's  \ 

I  dying  away  high  up  among  the  magnificent  architecture 

of  the   dills,  and   on  might   be   noticed   in  the  silence  the 

ing  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Just  then  a  large  stone  fell  from  the  top  of  the  cliff  into  the  pool, 

a  loud  voice  was  heard,  and  a  plaid  hung  over  on   the  point  of  a 

erd's  staff.     Their  watchful  sentinel   had  descried  danger,  and 

this  was  his  warning.     Forthwith  the    congregation    rose.     There 

paths  dangerous  to  unpraetieed  I'.et,  along  the  ledges  of  the 

rocks,  leading  up  to  several  caves  and  places  of  concealment.     The 

more  active  and  young  assisted  the  elder,  more  especially  the  old 

pastor,  and  the  women  with  infants;    and  many  minutes  had  not 

d  till  not  a  living  creature  was  visible  in  the  channel  of  the 

:n,  but   all   of   them    hidden,   or   nearly  so,   in    the   clefts   of 

the  caverns. 

The  shepherd  who  had  given  the  alarm  had  laid  down  again  m 

aid  instantly  on   the  green  sward  upon  the  summit  of  these 

precipices.     A  party  of  soldiers  were  immediately  upon  him.  and 

demanded  what  signals  he  had  been  making,  and  to  whom;  when 

one  of  them,  looking  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  exclaimed,  M 

Humphrey,  we  have  caught  the  whole  tabernacle  of  the  Lord 
in  a  net  at  last.  There  they  are,  praising  God  among  the  stones  of 
the  river  Mouss.  These  are  the  Cartland  Craigs.  By  my  soul's 
salvation,  a  noble  cathedrall"  "Fling  the  lying  sentinel  over  the 
cliffs.  Hen  is  a  canting  covenanter  for  you,  deceiving  honest  sol- 
diers on  the  very  Sabbath  day.  Over  with  him,  over  with  him; 
out  of  the  gallery  into  the  pit." 

But  the  shepherd  had  vanished  BId  ■  ;  and,  mixing  with 

broom   and    basnet,   was   making  his   unseen   way 
toward  a  wood.     "  Satan  fa  rvant;  but  come,  my  lads, 

follow  mo;   I  know  the  way  down  into  the  bed  of  the  stream — ami 
the  steps  up  to  Wallace's  Cave.     They  are  called  the  'Kittle  Nino 
Stanea,'     The  hunts  up.     We'll  all  be  in  at  the  death.     Halloo,  my 
boys,  halloo  1 " 
6 


120  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  soldiers  dashed  down  a  less  precipitous  part  of  the  wooded 
bank,  a  little  below  the  "craigs,"  and  hurried  up  the  channel.  But 
when  they  reached  the  altar  where  the  old  gray-haired  minister  had 
been  seen  standing,  and  the  rocks  that  had  been  covered  with 
people,  all  were  silent  and  solitary;  not  a  creature  to  be 
"  Here  is  a  Bible  dropped  by  some  of  them,"  cried  a  soldier,  and,  with 
his  foot,  spun  it  away  into  the  pool.  "A  bonnet,  a  bonnet,"  cried 
nother ;  "  now  for  the  pretty  sanctified  face  that  rolled  its  demure 
yes  below  it" 

But  after  a  few  jests  and  oaths,  the  soldiers  stood  still,  eying 
with  a  kind  of  mysterious  dread  the  black  and  silent  walls  of  the 
rock  that  hemmed  them  in,  and  hearing  only  the  small  voice  of 
the  8ti<  ent  a  profounder  stillness  through  the  heart  of  that 

o  solitude.  "Curse  these  cowardly  covenanters — what  if 
they  tumble  down  upon  our  heads  pieces  of  rock  from  their  hiding- 
places  ?    Advance  ?  or  retreat  ?  " 

There  wa3  no  reply.  For  a  slight  fear  was  upon  every  man ; 
musket  or  bayonet  could  be  of  little  use  to  men  obliged  to  clamber 
up  rocks,  along  slender  paths,  leading,  they  knew  not  where ;  and 
they  were  aware  that  armed  mm,  now-a-days,  worshiped  God — 
men  of  iron  hearts,  who  feared  not  the  glitter  of  the  soldier's  arms, 
neither  barrel  nor  bayonet — men  of  long  stride,  firm  step,  and  broad 
breast,  who,  on  the  open  field,  would  have  overthrown  the  mar- 
shalled line,  and  gone  first  and  foremost,  if  a  city  had  to  be  taken 
by  storm. 

As  the  soldiers  were  standing  together  irresolute,  a  noise  came 
upon  their  ears  like  distant  thunder,  but  even  more  appalling;  and 
a  slight  current  of  air,  as  if  propelled  by  it,  passed  whispering  along 
the  sweet-briars,  and  the  broom,  and  the  tresses  of  the  birch  trees. 
It  came  deepening,  and  rolling,  and  roaring  on,  and  the  very  Cart- 
land  Craigs  shook  to  their  foundation,  as  if  with  an  earthquake 
" The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us — what  is  this?"  And  down  fell 
many  of  the  miserable  wretches  on  their  knees,  and  some  on  their 
faces,  upon  the  sharp-pointed  rocks.  Now,  it  was  like  the  sound 
of  many  myriads  of  chariots  rolling  on  their  iron  axles  down  the 
stony  channel  of  the  torrent. 

The  old  gray-haired  minister  issued  from  the  mouth  of  Wallace's 
Cave,  and  said,  with  a  loud  voice,  "  The  Lord  God  terrible  reign 


I  xercises  in  Elocution.  121 

etn."     A  water-spout  hud  burst  up  among  the  moor-lands,  and  the 

river  in  its  power  was  at  hand.     There  it  came,  tumbling  along  into 

that  long  reach  of  cliffs,  and  in  a  moment  filled  it  with  one  mass  of 

waves.     Huge,  agitated  clouds  of  foam  rode  on  the  surface  of  a 

blood-red  torrent.     An  army  must   have  been  swept  off  by  that 

flood.     The  soldiers  perished  in  a  moment;  but  high  up  in  the 

cliffs,  above  the  sweep  of  destruction,  were  the  covenanters — men, 

;en,  and  children,  uttering  prayers  to  God,  unheard  by  them- 

ielves  in  that  raging  thunder. 

^    °  John  Wilton. 


The  Battle, 

Heavy  and  solemn, 

A  cloudy  column. 
Through  the  green  plain  they  marching  come 
Measureless  spread,  like  a  table  dread, 
For  the  wild  grim  dice  of  the  iron  game. 
Looks  are  bent  on  the  shaking  ground, 
rtl  beat  low  with  a  knelling  sound; 
Swift  by  the  breast  that  must  bear  the  brant, 
Gallops  the  Major  along  the  front 

"  Halt  1" 
And  fettered  they  stand  at  the  stark  command. 
And  the  warriors,  silent,  halt. 

Proud  in  the  blush  of  morning  glowing, 

What  on  the  hill-top  shines  in  (lowing? 

"See  you  the  foeman's  banners  waving? 

•'  W.   get  the  foeman's  banners  waving!" 

14  God  be  with  your  children  and  wife!" 

Hark  to  the  music — the  drum  and  fife — 

How  they  ring  through  the  ranks,  which  they  reuse  to  the  strife  1 

Thrilling  they  sound,  with  their  glorious  tone, 

Thrilling  they  go  through  the  marrow  and  bone! 

rs,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 
In  the  life  to  0OHM  that  we  meet  "ixv  more! 


122  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

See  the  smoke,  how  the  lightning  is  cleaving  asunder  1 
Harkl  the  guns,  peal  on  peal,  how  they  boom  in  their  thunder. 
From  host  to  hosi  with  kindling  sound, 
The  shouted  signal  circles  round ; 

already  breathes  the  breath  I 
The  war  is  waging,  slaughter  raging, 
And  heavy  through  the  reeking  pall 

The  iron  death-dice  fall  1 
Nearer  they  close — foes  upon  foes — 
M  Ready  1 " — from  square  to  square  it  goea. 

They  kneel  as  one  man  from  flank  to  flank, 

And  the  fire  comes  sharp  from  the  foremost  rank. 

Many  a  soldier  to  earth  is  sent, 

Many  a  gap  by  ball  is  rent; 

O'er  the  corpse  before  springs  the  hindest  man, 

That  the  line  may  not  fall  to  the  fearless  van. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  around  and  around, 

Death  whirls  in  its  dance  on  the  bloody  ground. 

God's  sunlight  is  quenched  in  the  fiery  fight, 

Over  the  hosts  fall  tg  night  1 

Brothers,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

In  the  life  to  come  we  may  meet  once  more. 

The  dead  men  are  bathed  in  the  weltering  blood 

And  the  living  are  blent  in  the  slippery  flood, 

And  the  feet,  as  they  reeling  and  sliding  go, 

Stumble  still  on  the  corpse  that  sleeps  below. 

■  What?  Francis  1 "—"  Give  Charlotte  my  last  farewell 

As  the  dying  man  murmurs,  the  thundei"S  swell — 

"I'll  give — 0  God!  are  the  guns  so  near? 

Ho  I  comrades ! — yon  volley  I — look  sharp  to  the  rear ! 

I'll  give  to  thy  Charlotte  thy  last  farewell  1 

Sleep  soft!  where  death  thickest  descendeth  in  rain, 

The  friend  thou  forsaketh  thy  side  may  regain!" 

Hither  ward,  thitherward  reels  the  fight; 

Dark  and  more  darkly  day  glooms  into  night. 

Brethren,  God  grant,  when  this  life  is  o'er, 

fn  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  more! 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  123 

Hark  to  the  hoofs  that  galloping  go  1 

The  adjutants  flying — 
The  horsemen  press  hard  on  the  panting  foe, 

Their  thunder  booms  in  dying — 

Victory  1 
Tremor  has  seized  on  the  dastards  ail, 

And  their  leaders  fall  1 

Victory  1 

Closed  is  the  brunt  of  the  glorious  fight; 

And  the  day,  like  a  conqueror,  bursts  on  the  night ! 

Trumpet  and  fife  swelling  choral  along, 

The  triumph  already  sweeps  marching  in  song. 

11,  fallen  brothers;  though  this  life  be  o'er, 
There's  another,  in  which  we  shall  meet  you  once  morel 

Translated  from  Schiller  by  Hulwer. 


Over  the  River. 
Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me — 

Loved  ones  who've  crossed  to  the  further  side; 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  drowned  in  the  rushing  tide. 
There's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes,  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight,  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view. 
We  saw  not  the  ft&gefa  who  met  him  there; 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me! 

Over  the  river,  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another — the  household  pet; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie  1     1  see  her  J 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark; 
We  watched  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

An  aishine  grew  strangely  dark. 


124  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side, 
Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 

Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail, — 
And  lo  1  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  heart; 

They  cross  the  stream,  and  are  gone  for  aye; 
We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day ; 
We  only  know  that  their  bark  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  over  life's  stormy  sea; 
Yet  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river,  and  hill,  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold, 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail ; 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand , 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land ; 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 

When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 

MlaPrimL 


The  Wonderful  "One-Hoss  Shay." 

A    LOGICAL   STORY. 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it Ah,  but  stay, 


/:.\!  L'CISES  IN  EL0CUT1  125 

I'll  tell  you  what  happened,  without  delay — 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  filly -five, 
Qeorgins  Secundus  was  then  alive — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive! 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon  town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown. 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now,  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always,  somewhere,  a  weakest  spot — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 
In  panel  or  cross-bar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 
In  screw,  bolt,  thorough-brace — lurking  still, 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without — 
And  that's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 
A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  doesn't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore — (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "I  dew  vura  "  or  an  "I  tell  yeou") — 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'N'  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown: — 
"Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "'t's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  must  stan'  the  strain ; 
'N'  tl  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest" 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

could  find  die  strongest  oak, 
That  couldn't  be  split,  nor  bent,  nor  broke — 
That  was  ;  and  floor,  and  sills ; 


126  S/..S  or  Elocution. 

He  sent  for  lancewood,  to  make  the  thills; 

The  cross-bars  (rem  th<-  straightest  trees; 

Tlie  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  t! 

The  hubs  from  logs  from  the  "Setter's  ellura" — 

Last  of  its  timb«T— th.-y  couldn't  sell  'em — 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-ti: 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide, 

Found  in  the  pit  where  the  tanner 

That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through." 

"  There  I "  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she'll  dew  I  » 

Do  1  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  I 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  <I  Lropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren — where  were  they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay, 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  1 

Eighteen  Hundred — it  came,  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred,  increased  by  ten — 
"Hahnsum  kerridge"  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came ; — 
Running  as  usual — much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive; 
And  then  came  fifty — and  Fifty-five. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 
Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 
Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 
In  fact,  there's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 


JJxercises  in  Elocution.  127 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large : 

Take  it — You're  welcome. — No  extra  charge.) 

First  or  November — the  Earthquake-day. — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay— - 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  Bay. 
There  couldn't  be — for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  wasn't  a  chance  for  one  to  start 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back  crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring,  and  axle,  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  t 

First  of  November, 'Fifty-five! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Hud  up! "  said  the  parson. — Oft  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday  text — 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the — Moses— was  coming  next 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'  house  on  the  hill. 
— First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock — 
Just  the  hour  of  the  earthquake  shock! 

What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stated  around  ? 
6* 


128  J'Jxercises  in  Elocution. 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once — 
All  at  once,  and  nothing  first — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst — 
End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic    That's  all  I  say. 


0.  W.  Hot  met. 


Warren's  Address. 

Ptandl  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braven, 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel  ? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal, 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel, 

Ask  it,  ye  who  will ! 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  they're  a-fire ! 

And  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it  I     From  the  vale 
On  they  cornel  and  will  ye  quail? — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  I 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust  1 

Die  we  may — and  die  we  must ; 

But,  oh,  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 

As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 

On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 

And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell  ? 

Rev.  John  PierponL 


K.\  ov  Elocution,  120 

A  Psalm  of  Life. 
Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers  ; 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real  1     Life  is  earnest  1 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
"  Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest," 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting ; 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 

Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle  1 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife. 

Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead  ( 
Act, — act  in  the  living  present  I 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ; — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 

Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again 


130  JBXMBOIBMB  in  Elocution. 

L't  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  late ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait 


//.    W.  Longfellow. 


Tasso's  Coronation. 


L 
A  trumpet's  note  is  in  the  sky,  in  the  glorious  Roman  sky, 
Whose  dome  hath  rung,  so  many  an  age,  to  the  voice  of  victory , 
There  is  crowding  to  the  capitol,  the  imperial  streets  al.mg, 
For  again  a  conqueror  must  be  crowned, — a  kingly  child  of  song  1 

ii. 
Yet  his  chariot  lingers, 
Yet  around  his  home 
Broods  a  shadow  silently, 
Mi  the  joy  of  Rome. 

in. 
A  thousand  thousand  laurel-boughs  are  waving  wide  and  far, 
To  shed  out  their  triumphal  gleams  around  his  rolling  car ; 
A  thousand  haunts  of  olden  gods  have  given  their  wealth  of  flowers, 
To  scatter  o'er  his  path  of  fame  bright  hues  in  gem-like  showers. 

IV. 

Peace  I  within  his  chamber 

Low  the  mighty  lies; 
With  a  cloud  of  dreams  on  his  noble  brow, 

And  a  wandering  in  his  eyes. 

v. 

Sing,  sing  for  him,  the  lord  of  song,  for  him,  whose  rushing  strain 
In  mastery  o'er  the  spirit  sweeps,  like  a  strong  wind  o'er  the  main  ! 
Whose  voice  lives  deep  in  burning  hearts,  forever  there  to  dwell, 
As  full-toned  oracles  are  shrined  in  a  temple's  holiest  cell. 

VI. 

Yes  I  for  him,  the  victor, 

Sing, — but  low,  sing  lowl 
A  soft  sad  mis-e-re-re  chant, 

For  a  soul  about  to  go! 


/;  i  or  Elocution.  131 

VII. 

The  sun,  the  sun  of  Italy  is  pouring  oYr  his  way, 
When  the  Old  three  hundred  triumphs  moved,  1  Hood  of  golden  day  ; 
Streaming  through  every  haughty  arch  of  the  Caesars'  past  renown : 
Bring  forth,  in  that  exulting  light,  the  conqueror  for  his  crown  1 

vm. 
Shut  the  proud,  bright  sunshine 

From  the  fading  sight  1 
There  needs  no  ray  by  the  bed  of  death, 
Save  the  holy  taper's  light. 

IX. 

The  wreath  is  twined,  the  way  is  strewn,  the  lordly  train  are  net, 
The  streets  are  hung  with  coronals, — why  stays  the  minstrel  yet? 
Shout  1  as  an  army  shouts  in  joy  around  a  royal  chief, — 
Bring  forth  the  bard  of  chivalry,  the  bard  of  love  and  grief  I 

x. 
Silence  1  forth  we  bring  him, 

In  his  last  array; 
From  love  and  grief  the  freed,  the  flown, — 
Way  for  the  bier, — make  way  1 

Mr*.  Ilcmam 


Death  of  the  Old  Year. 
Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter-snow, 

And  the  winter-winds  are  wearily  sighing 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell,  sad  and  slow, 
And  tread  softly  and  speak  low, 
For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 
Old  year  you  must  not  die ; 
You  came  to  us  so  readily, 
You  lived  with  us  so  steadily, 
Old  y«'.ir.  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still:  he  doth  not  move: 
He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day  :— 

Ho  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  me  a  friend  and  a  true,  true  love, 
And  the  new  year  will  take  them  away. 


132  Exercises  i.x  Elocution. 

Old  year  you  must  not  go ; 
So  long  as  you  have  boon  with  us, 
Sucli  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us, 

Old  year  you  shall  not  go. 

He  frothed  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A  jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 
But  though  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim, 
And  though  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 
He  was  a  friend  to 

Old  year  you  shall  not  die ; 
We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 
I've  half  a  mind  to  die  with  you, 
Old  year  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest ; 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o'er. 
To  see  him  die,  across  the  waste 

son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste, 
But  he'll  be  dead  b 

ry  one  for  his  own. 
The  night  is  starry  and  cold  my  friend 
And  the  New  Year  blithe  and  bold,  my  friend, 
Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  I  o'er  the  snow 
I  heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock, 
The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro : 
The  cricket  chirps — the  light  burns  low- 
'Tis  nearly  twelve  o'clock. 

Shake  hands  before  you  die  I 
Old  year  we'll  dearly  rue  for  you: 
What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? — 
Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin ; — 

Alack  1  our  friend  is  gone. 
Close  up  his  eyes — tie  up  his  chin — 
Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 

That  standeth  there  alone, 


h'xERcisES  in  Elocution.  133 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 
Therms  a  new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend, 
And  a  new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A  new  face  at  the  door. 

Alfred  Ttrmymm. 


Song  of  the  Greeks. 

L 

Again  to  the  battle,  AchaiansI 

Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance ; 
Our  land — the  first  garden  of  Liberty's 
It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free : 

For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 

The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 
And  we  march  that  the  footprints  of  Mahomet's  slaves 
May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 

Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 

And  the  sword  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

ii. 
Ah  !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 
Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 
Are  stretched  in  our  aid  ?     Be  the  combat  our  own  I 
And  we'll  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone  ; 
For  we  've  sworn  by  our  country's  assaulters, 
By  the  virgins  they've  dragged  from  our  altars, 
By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 
By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 
That,  living,  we  toill  be  victorious, 
Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

in. 

A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not : 

The  sword  Wtt  have  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not! 
Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 
And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  bla  ; 

Earth  may  hide,  waves  engulf,  fire  consume  us ; 

But  they  thaE  not  to  slavery  doom  us : 


134  A' | ■/■;/iV/.s7-:.s'  Of  Elocition. 

If  tiny  rule,  it  shall  be  o'er  our  ashes  and  graves: 
But  we've  smote  tliera  already  with  fire  on  the  wave*. 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us  ; 

To  the  charge  I     Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 


This  day — shall  ye  blush  for  its  story , 
Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory  ? — 
Our  women — 0,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 
Or  embrace  us  from  conquest,  with  wreaths  in  their  hair  ? 
Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 
If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 
Till  we've  trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  ourselves  worth 
Being  sprung  from  and  named  for,  the  godlike  of  earth  1 
Strike  home  I  and  the  world  shall  revere  us 
As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 


Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion  1 

Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  ocean, 
Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns,  shall  with  jubilee  ring 
And  the  Nine  shall  new  hallow  their  Helicon's  spring. 

Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness, 

That  were  cold  and  extinguished  in  sadness; 
Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white  waving  arms. 
Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms, — 

When  the  blood  of  yon  Musselman  cravens 

Shall  have  crimsoned  the  beaks  of  our  ravens  I 

Campbell. 


The  Bell  of  the  Atlantic 
Toll,  toll,  toll,  thou  bell  by  billows  swung; 

And,  night  and  day,  thy  warning  words  repeat  with  mournful  tongue ! 
Toll  for  the  queenly  boat,  wrecked  on  yon  rocky  shore  1 
Sea-weed  is  in  her  palace  walls  ;  she  rides  the  surge  no  more. 

Toll  for  the  master  bold,  the  high-souled  and  the  brave, 

Who  ruled  her  like  a  thing  of  life  amid  the  crested  wave  1 

Toll  for  the  hardy  crew,  sons  of  the  storm  and  blast, 

Who  long  the  tyrant  ocean  dared  ;  but  it  vanquished  them  at  last 


HxMMoisma  in  Elogutiqm.  135 

Toll  for  the  man  of  God,  whose  hallowed  voice  of  prayer 
Rose  calm  above  tin*  stilled  groan  of  that  intense  despair! 
us  were  those  tones  on  that  sad  verge  of  life, 
Amid  the  fierce  and  freezing  storm,  and  the  mountain  billows' strife! 

Toll  for  the  lover  lost  to  the  summoned  bridal  train  1 

Bright  glows  ■  picture  on  his  breast,  beneath  th'  unfathomed  main. 

On 3  from  her  casement  gazeth  long  o'er  the  misty  sea: 

He  cometh  not,  pale  maiden — his  heart  is  cold  to  thee. 

Toll  for  the  absent  sire,  who  to  his  home  drew  near, 
To  bless  a  glad  expecting  group — fond  wife  and  children  dear! 
They  heap  the  blazing  hearth;   the  festal  board  is  spread; 
But  a  fearful  guest  is  at  the  gate  :  room  for  the  pallid  dead  ! 

Toll  for  the  loved  and  fair,  the  whelmed  beneath  the  tide — 

The  broken  harps  around  wlu.se  strings  the  dull  sea-monsters  glide! 

ier  and  nur.-ling  sweet,  reft  from  their  household  throng. 
There's  bitter  weeping  in  the  nest  where  breathed  the  soul  of  song. 

Toll  for  the  hearts  that  bleed  'neath  misery's  furrowing  trace! 
Toll  for  the  hapless  orphan  left,  the  last  of  all  his  race! 

with  thy  heaviest  knell,  from  surge  to  rocky  shore, 
Toll  for  the  living, — not  the  dead,  whose  mortal  woes  are  o'er  ! 

Toll,  toll,  toll,  o'er  breeze  and  billow  free, 

And  with  thy  startling  lore  instruct  each  rover  of  the  sea : 

Tell  how  o'er  proudest  joys  may  swift  destruction  sweep, 

And  bid  him  build  his  hopes  on  high — lone  teacher  of  the  deep. 

L'jtfia  il.  Sigourney. 


Adams  and  Jefferson. 

Adams   and    Jefferson,    I   have   said,  are  no  more.      As  human 

[8,  indeed,  they    are   no   more.      They   are  no  DOT*,  ;is  in  177»i, 

bold  and  R  independence;  no  more,  as  on  sub- 

ut  periods,  the  head  of  the  government;  no  more,  as  we  have 

tl  of  admiration  and 
.re  no  more.      T:.<  y  ;.:•■  •: 
•  how  little  is  there  of  the  :  good  wilie'  '      To 

their  country  they  yet  live,  and  live  footer.     They  live  in  a! 


13t>  KR CISES  IN  El octjtion. 

nates  the  remembrance  of  men  on  earth;  in  the  recorded 
proofs  of  their  own  great  actions,  in  the  offspring  of  their  intellect, 
in  the  deep  engraved  lines  of  public  gratitude,  and  in  the  respect 
and  homage  of  mankind.  They  live  in  their  example ;  and  they 
live,  emphatically,  and  w  ill  live,  in  the  influence  which  their  lives 
and  efforts,  their  principles  and  opinions,  now  exercise,  and  will 
continue  to  exercise,  on  the  affairs  of  men,  not  onlv  in  their  own 
country,  but  throughout  the  civilized  world. 

A  superior  and  commanding  human  intellect,  a  truly  great  man 
when  Heaven  vouchsafes  so  rare  a  gift,  is  not  a  temporary  flame, 
burning  bright  for  a  while,  and  then  expiring,  giving  place  to 
returning  darkness.  It  is  rather  a  spark  of  fervent  heat,  as  well  as 
radiant  light,  with  power  to  enkindle  the  common  mass  of  human 
mind;  so  that,  when  it  glimmers,  in  its  own  decay,  and  finally  goes 
out  in  death,  no  night  follows ;  but  it  leaves  the  world  all  light,  all 
on  fire,  from  the  potent  contact  of  its  own  spirit 

Bacon  died;  but  the  human  understanding,  loused  by  the  touch 

of  his  miraculous  wand  to  a  perception  of  the  true  philosophy  and 

the  just  mode  of  inquiring  after  truth,  has  kept  on  its  course  suc- 

!y   and   gloriously.      Newton   died;  yet  the  courses  of  the 

m  are  still  known,  and  they  yet  move  on,  in  the  orbits  which 

he  saw  and  described  for  them,  in  the  infinity  of  space. 

No  two  men  now  live — perhaps  it  may  be  doubted  whether  any 
two  men  have  ever  lived  in  one  age — who,  more  than  those  we  now 
commemorate,  have  impressed  their  own  sentiments,  in  regard  to 
politics  and  government,  on  mankind,  infused  their  own  opinions 
more  deeply  into  the  opinions  of  others,  or  given  a  more  lasting 
direction  to  the  current  of  human  thought.  Their  work  doth  not 
perish  with  them.  The  tree  which  they  assisted  to  plant  will 
flourish,  although  they  water  it  and  protect  it  no  longer ;  for  it  has 
struck  its  roots  deep ;  it  has  sent  them  to  the  very  center ;  no  storm, 
not  of  force  to  burst  the  orb,  can  overturn  it ;  its  branches  spread 
wide ;  they  stretch  their  protecting  arms  broader  and  broader,  and 
its  top  is  destined  to  reach  the  heavens. 

We  are  not  deceived.  There  is  no  delusion  here.  No  age  will 
come  in  which  the  American  revolution  will  appear  less  than  it  is, 
one  of  the  greatest  events  in  human  history.  No  age  will  come  in 
which  it  will  cease  to  be  seen  and  felt,  on  either  continent,  that  a 


i:xercises  in  Elocution.  137 

mighty  st^p,  a  great  advance,  not  only  in  American  affaire,  but  in 
human  affaire,  wai  made  on  the  4th  of  July,  177G.  And  no  ago 
will  come,  we  trust,  so  ignorant,  or  so  unjust,  as  not  to  see  and 
acknowledge  the  efficient  agency  of  these  we  now  honor  in  pro- 
ducing that  momentous  event 

Daniel  WeUUr 


Polish  War  Song, 

Freedom  calls  you!     Quick,  be  ready, — 

Rouse  ye  in  the  name  of  God, — 
Onward,  onward,  strong  and  steady, — 
Dub  to  earth  the  oppressor's  rod. 
torn  calls,  ye  brave  I 
Rise,  and  spurn  the  name  of  slave. 

Grasp  the  sword  ! — its  edge  is  keen, 

Seize  the  gun ! — its  ball  is  true : 
Sweep  your  land  from  tyrant  clean,- 

Haste,  and  scour  it  through  and  through! 
Onward,  onward!     Freedom  cries, 
Rush  to  arms,— the  tyrant  flies. 

By  the  souls  of  patriots  gone, 

Wake, — arise, — your  fetters  break, 
Kosciusko  bids  you  on, — 
Sobieski  cries  awake ! 

Rise,  and  front  the  despot  czar, 
Rise,  and  dare  the  unequal  war. 

Freedom  calls  you!     Quick,  be  ready, — 
Think  of  what  /our  sires  have  been, — 
•Onward,  onwu:  md  steady, — 

Dr: 

On,  and  let  the  watchwords  be, 
Country,  home,  and  liberty  ! 

James  Q.  PeravaL 


138  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  Boys. 

This  selection  Is  a  poem  addressed  to  the  class  of  1829,  in  Harvard 
College,  some  thirty  years  after  their  graduation. 

Has  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  almanac's  cheat  and  the  catalogue's  spite! 
Old  Time  is  a  liar;  we're  twenty  to-night 

We  're  twenty  I     We're  twenty  1     Who  says  we  are  more  ? 
He's  tipsey, — young  jackanapes! — -how  him  the  doorl 
"Gray  temples  at  twenty?" — Yes !  white  if  we  please; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there's  nothing  can  freeze  I 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of?     Excuse  the  mistake  1 
Look  close, — you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  I 
We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed, 
Ami  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  Ve  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been  told, 
Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old ; 
That  boy  we  call  "Doctor"  and  this  we  call  "Judge"  ! 
It  '8  a  neat  little  fiction,— of  course  it's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  "  Speaker,"  the  one  on  the  right  ; 

ftfr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night? 
That  *s  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we  chaff ; 
There's  the  'Reverend" — what 's  his  name? — don't  make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  Royal  Society  thought  it  was  true  I 

So  they  chose  him  right  in, — a  good  joke  it  was,  too! 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain, 

That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain ; 

When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 

We  called  him   u  The  Justice,"  but  now  he  's  the  u  Squire." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith  ; 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free, — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "of  thee  "  ! 


E.\  §  i.\  Elocution.  139 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?     You  think  he  's  all  fun ; 
lint  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  be  lias  done; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
An  1  the  p>or  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  al). 

Yes,  we're  boys, — always  playing  with  tongue  ot  with  pen] 
And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men? 
Shall  we  always  he  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 

-tars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  I 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  Thy  children,  the  boys  I 

Oliver  W  Holme* 


An  Order  for  a  Picture. 

O,  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 

Aye  ?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  cornfields  a  little  brown, — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light, 

Of  a  cloud  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 

Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 

Lying  between  them,  not  quite 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing  room 

Under  their  tassels, — cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  shoi  t  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around, — 
Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound  I 

These  and  the  little  house  where  I  was  bora, 
Low  and  little  and  black  and  old, 


UO  Ex i  m  Elocution. 

Willi  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide, — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush ; 

imps  ycu  may  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  self-same 
Out  of  a  wilding,  way-side  bush. 


Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 

With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herd*. 

A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 

Looked  down  upon,  you  must  paint  for  me; 

Oh,  if  I  only  could  make  you  see 
The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
-overeign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 

The  woman's  soul  and  the  angel's  face 
That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while  1 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words : 

Y.  t  one  word  tolls  you  all  I  would  say, — 
She  is  my  mother :  you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 
You  must  paint,  sir;  one  like  me, — 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow, 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise : 

At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 
God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now, — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  "  Commodore,"— 

Nobody  ever  crossed  her  track 

To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 
All,  'tis  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck: 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 


i:.x  wmaMM  s  or  Bloc ution.  1  i  J 

Bright  his  hair  was,  A  golden  brown, 

The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee; 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea ! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 

together,  half  afraid, 
Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 

Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far, — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 
Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And,  over  the  hay-stack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble,  and  ready  to  drop 

The  first  half-hour,  the  great  yellow  star 
That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry  tree, 
Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flax- field  grew, — 
Dead  at  the  top,-— just  one  branch  full 

notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 
From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
O.'er  our  head,  win  n  we  came  to  play 
In  its  handbreadth  of  shadow,  day  after  day, 
Afraid  to  go  home,  sir;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs, — 

other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat' 

ier  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 
You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie  ? 

If  you  can,  pray  haw  tin'  grace 

To  pal 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me; 
I  think  'twas  solely  mine,  iuu- 


142  SXMBGBSMB  IN  Elocutiox. 

But  that's  no  matter, — paint  it  so  ; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother — (take  good  heed) — 
Looking  not  on  the  nest-full  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  1. 
But  straight  through  our  faces,  down  to  our  lies, 
And  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surj 

I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  nt,  as  though 

A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it. 

You,  sir,  know, 
That  you  on  the  canvas  are  to  ret 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  rm»-t  , — 

ds  and  cornfields  and  mulberry  tree, — 
The  mother, — the  lads,  with  their  birds,  at  her  knee, 

But,  oh  that  look  of  reproachful  woe  1 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I'll  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture,  and  leave  that  out 

Alice  Oary. 

Soene  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice, 
Belmont     A  Room  in   Portia's  House. 

For.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body  is  aweary  of  this  great 
world. 

Ner.  You  would  be,  sweet  madam,  if  your  miseries  were  in  the 
same  abundance  as  your  good  fortunes  are;  and  yet,  for  aught  I 
■  v  ;ire  as  sick  that  surfeit  with  too  much  as  they  that  starve 
with  nothing.  It  is  no  mean  happiness,  therefore,  to  be  seated  in 
the  mean ;  superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs,  but  competency 
lives  longer. 

Por.  Good  sentences  and  well  pronounced. 
They  would  be  better  if  well  followed. 

P<>r.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what  were  good  to  do 
chapels  had  been  churches,  and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  palaces 
It  is  a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions.  I  can  easier 
teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be  done  than  be  one  of  the  twenty 
to  follow  mine  own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for  the 
dood;  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  over  a  cold  decree;  such  a  hare 
is  madness,  the  youth,  to  skip  c  er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the 
cripple.     But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to  choose  me  a 


:si:s  /.v  ELOCVTTOir*  14a 

0  in.' !  the  word  choose!     I  may  neither  choose  whom  1 
i  is  the  will  of  a  living  daughtei 
the  will  of  a  dead  father.     Is  it  not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  1 
cannot  choose  one,  nor  refuse  none? 

was  ever  virtuous;  and  holy  men  at  their  dealt 

.  inspirations;  therefore  the  lottery  that  be  hath  devised  in 

three  chests  of  gold,  silver,  ami  lead  (whereof  who  choosei 

leaning,  chooses  you),  will,  no  douht,  never  be  chosen  by  any 

;. ,  but  out'  whom  you  shall  rightly  love.     But  what  warmth  ia 

in  your  afteetion  toward  any  of  these  princely  suitors  that 

Iready  come  ? 

I  pray  thee  overname  them;  and  as  thou  narnest  them,  I 
will  describe  them;  and  according  to  my  description,  level  at  my 
affection. 

*.  there  is  the  Neapolitan  prince. 
Par.  Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,  for  he  doth  nothing  but  talk  of  his 
horse;  and  be  makes  it  a  great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts 
that  he  can  shoe  him  himself. 

iere  the  county  Palatine. 

For.   He  doth  nothing  but.  frown;  M  who  should  say,  "  And  you 

will  not  have  me  choose;"  he  hears  merry  tales  and  smiles  not, 

r  he  will  prove  the    ■  hilosopher,  when  lie  grows  old, 

;    so  full  of  unmannerly  sadness  in  his  youth.     I   had  rather 

narried  to  a  death's-head  with  a  bone  in    his  mouth,  than  to 

either  of  these.      God   defend   me   from  these  two! 

Ner.  How  say  you  by  the  French  lord,  Monsieur  Le  Bon  T 

1  made   him,  and  therefore  let  him  pass  for  a   man.     Id 
truth,  I  know   it  is  a  sin  to  be  mocker;  but,   he!   why  he   hath  a 
poli tan's;  a  better  bad  habit  of  frowning 
unt Palatine.     He  is  every  man  in  no  man;  if  a  tin 
tight  a  capering;  he  will  fence  with  his  own  sin 
should    marry   him  I  should    marry  twenty    husbands.     If  he 
ive  him  ;  for  if  he   love  me  to  mad  • 
ness,  I  should  never  requite  him. 

.  What  say  you  then  to   Faulconbridge,   the  young  baron  oi 
England? 

Pot.  You  know  I  say  nothing  to  him,  for  he  und  t  me 

I  him;  he    hath    neither  Latin,  nor    Italian;   and  you 

7 


144  KXMBCUM8  in  Elocution 

will  come  into  the  court  and  swear  that  I  have  a  poor  pennyworto 
m  the  English.  He  is  a  proper  man's  picture ;  but,  alas !  who  can 
converse  with  a  dumb  show?  How  oddly  he  is  suited  ;  I  think  he 
bought  his  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round-hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in 
Germany  and  his  behavior  everywhere. 

Ner.  What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his  neighbor? 

Por.  That  he  fa  hborly  charity   in  him,  for  he  borrowed  a 

ox  of  the  ear,  of  the  Englishman,  and  swore  he  would  pay  him 
gain  when  he  was  able.  I  think  the  Frenchman  became  his  surety, 
and  sealed  under  for  another. 

Ner.  How  like  you  the  young  German,  the  Duke  of  Saxony's 
nephew  ? 

Por.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is  sober;  and  most 
vilely  in  the  afternoon  when  he  is  drunk ;  when  he  is  best,  he  is  a 
little  worse  than  a  man ;  and  when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little  better 
than  a  beast  And  the  worst  fall  that  ever  fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make 
shift  to  go  without  him. 

Ner.  If  he  should  make  offer  to  choose,  and  choose  the  right  casket, 
you  would  refuse  to  perform  your  father's  will  if  you  should  refuse 
to  accept  him. 

Por.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  I  pray  thee  set  a  deep  glass 
of  Rhenish  wine  on  the  contrary  casket :  for  if  the  devil  be  within, 
and  that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will  choose  it.  I  will  do 
any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be  married  to  a  sponge. 

Ner.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any  of  these  lords ;  they 
have  acquainted  me  with  their  determinations ;  which  is,  indeed,  to 
return  to  their  home  and  to  trouble  you  with  no  more  suit,  unless 
you  may  be  won  by  some  other  sort  than  your  father's  imposi- 
tion, depending  on  the  caskets. 

Por.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will  die  as  chaste  as 
Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by  the  manner  of  my  father's  will.  I 
am  glad  this  parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable ;  for  there  is  not 
one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  absence,  and  I  pray  God 
grant  them  a  fair  departure. 

Ner.  Do  you  not  remember,  lady,  in  your  father's  time  a  Vene- 
tian, a  scholar  and  a  soldier,  that  came  hither  in  company  of  the 
Marquis  of  Montferrat? 

Por.  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  Bassanio ;  as  I  think,  so  he  was  called 


Exercises  in  Elocution-,  145 

Ner.  True,  madam ;  he,  of  all  the  men  that  ever  my  foolish  eyet 
looked  upon,  was  the  best  deserving  a  fair  lady. 

Por.  I  remember  him  well,  and  I  remember  him  worthy  of  thy 
praise.  How  now!     What  news? 

Servant  The  four  strangers  seek  for  you,  madam,  to  take  their 
•;  and  there  is  a  forerunner  come  from  a  fifth,  the  prince  of 
eco,  who  brings  word,  the  prince,  his  master,  will  be  here 
l-  night 

Por.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so  good  a  heart 
a*  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell,  I  should  be  glad  of  his  approach ; 
if  He  have  the  condition  of  a  saint  and  the  complexion  of  a  devil,  I 
bid  rather  he  should  shrive  me  than  wive  me.     Come,  Nerissa. 

Sirrah,  go  before.     Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer, 

another  knocks  at  the  door. 

Shakspeart. 

The  National  Ensign. 

Sir,  I  must  detain  you  no  longer.  I  have  said  enough,  and  more 
than  enough,  to  manifest  the  spirit  in  which  this  flag  is  now  com- 
mitted to  your  charge.  It  is  the  national  ensign,  pure  and  simple; 
•r  to  all  our  hearts  at  this  moment,  as  we  lift,  it  to  the  gale,  and 
see  no  other  sign  of  hope  upon  the  storm  cloud  which  rolls  and 
rattles  above  it,  save  that  which  is  reflected  from  its  own  radiant 
hues;  dearer,  a  thousand-fold  dearer  to  us  all,  than  ever  it  was 
before,  while  gilded  by  the  sunshine  of  prosperity,  and  playing  with 
the  zephyrs  of  peace.  It  will  speak  for  itself  far  more  eloquently 
than  I  can  speak  for  it 

Behold  itl  Listen  to  it!  Every  star  has  a  tongue;  every  stripe 
is  articulate.  There  is  no  language  or  speech  where  their  voices 
are  not  heard.  There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it  It  has  an  inswef 
00  of  duty.  It  has  a  solution  for  every  doubt  and 
perplexity.  It  has  a  word  of  good  cheer  for  every  hour  of  gloom 
or  of  despondency. 

Behold  it !     Listen  to  it  !     It  speaks  of  earlier  and  of  later  st  nig- 
gles.    It  speaks,  of  victories,  and  sometimes  of  reverses,  on  the 
and  on  th»-  land.     It  speaks  of  patriots  and  heroes  among  the  living 
and  the  dead  :  and  of  him  the  first  and  greatest  of  them  all,  around 
whose  consecrated  ashes  this  unnatural  and  abhorrent  strife  has  so 


146  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

long  been  raging — "  the  abomination  of  desolation  standing  where 
it  ought  not."  But  before  all  and  above  all  other  associations  and 
memories— whether  of  glorious  men  or  glorious  deeds,  or  glorious 
places — its  voice  is  ever  of  Union  and  Liberty,  of  the  Constitution 
and  the  Laws. 


The  Song  of  the  Oamp. 

44  Give  us  a  song  I"  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said  ■ 
u  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame  ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  u  Annie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong, — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 


E  xer cises  in  Elocution.  H 9 

Wounded  by  bayonets,  shells  and  balls, 

Somebody's  darling  was  borne  one  day. 
Somebody's  darling,  so  young  and  so  brave, 

Wearing  yet  on  his  pale,  sweet  face, 
Soon  to  be  hid  by  the  dust  of  the  grave, 

The  lingering  light  of  his  boyhood  grace. 

Matted  and  damp  are  the  curls  of  gold, 

Kissing  the  snow  of  that  fair  young  brow; 
Pale  are  the  lips,  cf  delicate  mold — 

Somebody's  darling  is  dying  now. 
Back  from  his  beautiful  blue-veined  brow, 

Brush  all  the  wandering  waves  of  gold ; 
Cross  his  hands  on  his  bosom  now, 

Somebody's  darling  is  stiff  and  cold. 

Kiss  him  once  for  somebody's  sake, 

Murmur  a  prayer,  soft  and  low; 
One  bright  curl  from  its  fair  mates  take, 

They  were  somebody's  pride  you  know. 
Somebody's  hand  hath  rested  there ; 

Wei  it  a  mother's,  soft  aud  white  ? 
And  have  the  lips  of  a  sister  fair 

Been  baptized  in  the  waves  of  light? 

God  knows  bestl     He  was  somebody's  lore, 

Somebody's  heart  enshrined  him  there; 
Somebody  wailed  his  name  above, 

Night  and  noon  on  the  wings  of  prayer. 
Somebody  wept  when  hv  marched  away, 

Looking  so  handsome,  brave  and  grand 
Somebody's  kiss  on  his  forehead  lay, 

Somebody  clung  to  his  parting  hand. 

Somebody's  waiting  and  watching  for  him, 
V<-arning  to  hold  him  again  to  their  heart, 

And  |]  s  with  his  blue  eyes  dim, 

And  the  smiling,  child-like  lips  apart. 


150  krcises  in  Elocution. 

Tenderly  bury  the  fair  young  dead, 

Pausing  to  drop  on  liis  grave  a  tear, 
Carve  on  the  wooden  slab  at  his  head, 

"  Somebody's  darling  slumbers  here." 

War  Lyric*  of  the  South. 


Zenobia's  Ambition 

I  am  charged  with  pride  and  ambition.  The  charge  is  true,  and 
J^'lory  in  its  truth.  Who  ever  achieved  any  thing  great  in  letters, 
arts  or  arms,  who  was  not  ambitious  ?  Caesar  was  not  more  ambi- 
tious than  Cicero.  It  was  but  in  another  way.  All  great! 
born  of  ambition.  Let  the  ambition  be  a  noble  one,  and  who  shall 
blame  it?  I  oonftai  I  did  once  aspire  to  be  queen,  not  only  of 
Palmyra,  but  of  the  East  That  I  am.  I  now  aspire  to  remain  so. 
Is  it  not  an  honorable  ambition  ?  Does  it  not  become  a  desc< 
of  the  Ptolemies  and  of  Cleopatra?  I  am  applauded  by  you  all 
for  what  I  have  already  done.  You  would  not  it  should  have  been 
less. 

But  why  pause  here?  Is  so  much  ambition  praiseworthy,  and 
more  criminal?  Is  it  fixed  in  nature  that  the  limits  of  this  empire 
should  be  Egypt  en  the  one  hand,  the  Hellespont  and  the  Euxine 
on  the  other?  Were  not  Suez  and  Armenia  more  natural  limits? 
Or  hath  empire  no  natural  limit,  but  is  broad  as  the  genius  that  can 
.  and  the  power  that  can  win?  Rome  has  the  West,  Let 
Palmyra  possess  the  East.  Not  that  nature  prescribes  this  and  no 
more.  The  gods  prospering,  and  I  swear  not  that  the  Mediterra- 
nean shall  hem  me  in  upon  the  west,  or  Persia  on  the  east.  Longi- 
rigfat — I  would  that  the  world  were  mine.  I  feel,  within,  the 
will  and  the  power  to  bless  it  were  it  so. 

Are  not  my  people  happy  ?  1  n»-~-k  upon  the  past  and  the  present, 
upon  my  nearer  and  remoter  subjects,  -ind  ask  nor  fear  the  answer. 
Whom  have  I  wronged? — what  province  have  I  oppressed? — what 
city  pillaged? — what  region  drained  with  taxes? — whose  life  have 
I  unjustly  taken,  or  estates  coveted  or  robbed  ? — whose  honor  have 
I  wantonly  assailed? — whose  rights,  though  of  the  weakest  and 
poorest,  have  I  trenched  upon  ? — I  dwell,  where  I  would  ever 
dwell,  in  the  hearts  of  my  people.     It  is  written  in  your  faces,  that 


Exku  CISES  IN  El  0  CUTION.  1  5 1 

I  reign  not  more  over  you  than  within  you.     The  foundation  of  my 
throne  is  n<>t  more  power  than  love. 

Suppose  DOW  my  ambition  mid  another  province  to  our  realm. 
;m  evil  ?  The  kingdoms  already  bound  to  us  by  the  joint  acts 
of  ourself  and  the  late  royal  Odenatus,  we  found  discordant  and  at 
war.  They  are  now  united  and  at  peace.  One  harmonious  whole 
has  grown  out  of  hostile  and  sundered  parts.  At  my  hands  they 
receive  a  common  justice  and  equal  benefits.  The  channels  of  their 
commerce  have  I  opened,  and  dug  them  deep  and  sure.  Prosperity 
and  plenty  are  in  all  their  borders.  The  streets  of  our  capital  bear 
testimony  to  the  distant  and  various  industry  which  here  seeks  its 
market. 

This  is  no  vain  boasting ;  receive  it  not  so,  good  friends.  It  is 
but  truth.  He  who  traduces  himself,  sins  with  him  who  traduces 
another.  He  who' is  unjust  to  himself,  or  less  than  just,  breaks  a 
law,  as  well  as  he  who  hurts  his  neighbor.  I  tell  you  what  I  am, 
and  what  I  have  done,  that  your  trust  for  the  future  may  not  rest 
upon  ignorant  grounds.  If  I  am  more  than  just  to  myself,  rebuke 
me.  If  I  have  overstepped  the  modesty  that  became  me,  I  am  open 
to  your  censure,  and  will  bear  it. 

But  I  have  spoken  that  you  may  know  your  queen,  not  only  by 
her  acts,  but  by  her  admitted  principles.  I  tell  you  then  that  I  am 
ambitious,  that  I  crave  dominion,  and  while  I  live  will  reign. 
Sprung  from  a  line  of  kings,  a  throne  is  my  natural  seat  I  love  it 
But  I  strive,  too,  you  can  bear  me  witness  that  I  do,  that  it  shall  be, 
while  I  sit  upon  it,  an  honored,  unpolluted  seat  If  I  can,  I  will 
haug  a  yet  brighter  glory  around  it 

WiUiam  War*. 


Portia's  Speech  on  Mercy. 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained, 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  Heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath.     It  is  twice  blessed — 
It  bleseti)  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes, 
'lis  ini-litiest  in  the  might.  ornes 

tfaotiod  monarch  better  than  Ins  crown. 

7* 


152  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

scepter  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings. 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptered  sway, 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  heart  of  kings — 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself. 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation.    We  do  pray  for  mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all 
To  render  the  deeds  of  mercy. 

Shahpeare, 

The  Bella* 
Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 
Silver  bells! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night  I 
While  the  stars,  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a  crystalline  delight; 
Keeping  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulatiou  that  so  musically  wells 

From  the  bells, 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells  I 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night, 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 
From  the  molten  golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 

*  The  compiler  hu  taken  the  liberty  of  omitting  many  repetitions,  believing  that  the  ordinary 
reader  will  have  leas  trouble  in  the  rendering,  while  the  elocutionist  may  insert  them  at  will 


/.'XKHCISES  IN  ELOCUTION.  153 

To  the  turtle  dove,  that  listens,  while  she  gloata 
On  the  moon  1 
Olr!  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells, 
How  it  swells  1 
How  it  dwells  1 
On  the  future ! — how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  bells, 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  1 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright  1 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tunc, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  firt^ 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor 
Now — now  to  sit,  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh!  the  bells  1 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair  1 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar  I 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  I 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows; 


154  SjtMMdsMa  ix  Elocution. 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  iks  and  swells, 

By  tin*  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells, 
fa  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Iron  bells  I 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  compels' 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tonel 
For  !id  that  floats 

From  the  rust  within  their  throats, 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah!  the  people  1 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who,  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling, 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone : 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman, 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human ; 

They  are  ghouls; 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls; 
And  he  rolls, 
A  paean  from  the  bells ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells! 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells; 

Keeping  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  paean  of  the  bella, 
Keeping  time, 
As  he  knells, 


8 A  ■  8 r'75^5  V7V  EL0CUT1  1  i> 5 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells, 
To  thf  tolling  of  the  bells, 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  A.   Pne. 


Borneo  and  Juliet. 

Balcony  Scene. 

Rom.  He  jests  at  scars  that  never  felt  a  wound. 

Jlm.iet  appears  on  the  Balcony,  and  sits  down. 

But  soft!  What  light  through  yonder  window  breaks! 

It  is  the  east,  and  Juliet  is  the  sun ! 

Arise,  fair  sun,  and  kill  the  envious  moon, 

Who  is  already  sick  and  pale  with  grief, 

That  thou,  her  maid,  art  far  more  fair  than  she. 

"  It  is  my  lady  ;  Oh  1  it  is  my  love: 

t4Oh,  that  she  knew  she  werel" 

She  speaks,  yet  she  says  nothing:  what  of  that? 

Her  eye  discourses :  I  will  answer  it. 

I  am  too  bold.     Oh,  were  those  eyes  in  heaven, 

They  would  through  the  airy  region  stream  so  bright, 

That  birds  would  sing,  and  think  it  were  the  mora. 

See,  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  I 

Oh,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand, 

That  I  might  touch  that  cheek  I 

Jul  Ah,  ine! 

Rom.  She  ;e  speaks  1 

Oh,  speak  again,  bright  angel !  for  thou  art 
As  gloriou  o'er  my  head, 

As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
To  the  up-turned  wond'ring  eyes  of  mortals, 
When  he  1  lazy-pacing  ( l>»uds, 

And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  ti,» 

Jul  Oh,  Romeo.  ;ut  thou  Romeo? 

I  and  refuse  thy  name: 


150  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Or,  if  thou  wflt  not,  be  bat  sworn  my  love, 
And  I'll  n<>  longer  be  ■  Capulet. 

Rom.  Shall  I  hear  more,  or  shall  I  speak  at  this? 

Jul  'Tis  but  thy  nam.-  that  is  my  enemy  1 
What's  in  a  name?     That  which  we  call  a  rose, 
By  any  other  nam-  it'll  M  swe.-t ; 

So  Romeo  would,  were  he  not  Romeo  called, 
Retain  that  dear  perfection  which  he  owes 
Without  that  title  1     Romeo,  quit  thy  name; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take  all  myself. 

Rom.  I  take  thee  at  thy  word  1 
Call  me  but  lore,  I  \\'\\\  forswear  my  name 
And  never  more  be  Romeo. 

Jul.   What  man  art  thou,  that,  thus  bescreened  in  night 
So  stum  blest  on  my  counsel? 

Bom.  I  know  not  how  to  tell  thee  who  I  ami 
M;.  ir  saint,  is  hateful  to  myself, 

Because  it  is  an  enemy  to  t! 

Jul.  My  ears  have  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred  words 
Of  that  tongue's  uttering,  yet  I  know  the  sound  I 
Art  thou  not  Romeo,  and  a  Montague? 

Rom.  Neither,  fair  saint,  if  either  thee  displease. 

Jul  How  cam'st  thou  hither  ? — tell  me — and  for  what  ? 
The  orchard  walls  are  high,  and  hard  to  climb ; 
And  the  place,  death,  considering  who  thou  art, 
If  any  of  my  kinsmen  find  thee  here. 

Rom.  With  love's  light  wings  did  I  o'er-perch  these  walls , 
For  stony  limits  cannot  hold  love  out; 
And  what  love  can  do,  that  dares  love  attempt; 
Therefore  thy  kinsmen  are  no  stop  to  me. 

Jul.  If  they  do  see  thee  here,  they'll  murder  thee. 

Rom.  Alack,  there  lies  more  peril  in  thine  eye, 
Than  twenty  of  their  swords  I  look  thou  but  sweet, 
And  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity. 

Jul  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  they  saw  thee  here. 
By  wrhose  direction  found'st  thou  out  this  place  ? 

Rom.  By  love,  who  first  did  prompt  me  to  inquire ; 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  157 

He  lent  me  counsel,  and  I  lent  him  eyes. 
I  am  no  pilot;  yet,  wert  thou  as  far 
As  that  vast  shore  washed  with  the  furthest  sea, 
ild  adventuie  for  such  meroiband 

Jul  Thcu  know'st,  the  mask  of  night  is  on  my  face, 
Else  would  a  maiden  blush  hepaint  my  cheek, 
For  that  which  thou  hast  heard  me  ?peak  to-night 

would  I  dwell  on  form;  fain,  fain  deny 
What  I  have  spoke  I     But  farewell  complimentl 
Dost  thou  love  me  ?     I  know  thou  wilt  say — Ay , 
And  I  will  take  thy  word !  yet,  if  thou  swear'st, 
Thou  may'st  prove  false ;  at  lovers'  perjuries, 
They  say,  Jove  laughs.     Oh,  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully  I 
Or,  if  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown,  and  be  perverse,  and  say  thee  nay, 
So  thou  wilt  woo !  but  else,  not  for  the  world. 
In  truth,  fair  Montague,  I  am  too  fond: 
And  therefore  thou  may'st  think  my  'haviour  light  I 
But  trust  me,  gentleman,  I'll  prove  more  true 
Than  those  that  have  more  cunning  to  be  strange. 
I  should  have  been  more  strange,  I  must  confess 
But  that  thou  overhcard'st,  ere  I  was  'ware, 
Mv  true  love's  passion  ;  therefore,  pardon  me, 
And  not  impute  this  yielding  to  light  love, 
Which  the  dark  night  has  so  discovered. 

Rom.  Lady,  by  yonder  blessed  moon  I  vow — 

Jul  Oh  I  swear  not  by  the  moon,  the  inconstant  moon 
That  monthly  changes  in  her  circled  orb; 
Lest  that  thy  love  prove  likewise  variable. 

Rom.  What  shall  I  swear  by  ? 

Jul  Do  not  swear  at  all ; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt,  swear  by  thy  gracious  selfj 
Which  is  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  I'll  believe  : 

Rom.  If  my  true  heart's  love — 

Jul  Well,  do  not  swear  1     Although  I  joy  in  thee, 
I  have  no  joy  of  this  contract  to-night; 


158  EXRRCJSMB  IX  ELOCUTION, 

It  is  too  rath,  too  unadvised,  too  sudden, 
Too  like  the  lightning,  which  doth  MMe  to  be, 
'Ere  ont  It  lightens.     Sweet,  good  night f 

This  bud  of  1  nmer's  ripening  breath, 

May  prove  a  beauteous  flower  when  next  we  meet. 
Good  night,  good  night ! — as  sweet  repose  and  rest 
ne  to  thy  heart,  as  that  within  my  breast! 

Rom.  Oh,  wilt  thou  leave  me  so  unsatisfied  ? 

Jul  What  satisfaction  canst  thou  have  to-night? 

Rom.  The  exchange  of  thy  love's  faithful  vow  for  nr.ne. 

Jul.  I  gave  thee  mine,  before  thou  didst  request  it: 
And  yet  I  would  it  were  to  give  again. 

Rom.  Would'st  thou  withdraw  it?  for  what  purpose,  love? 

Jul.  But  to  be  frank,  and  give  it  thee  again. 
My  bounty  is  as  boundless  as  the  sea, 
My  love  as  deep;  the  more  I  give  to  thee, 
The  more  I  have ;  for  both  are  infinite, 
I  hear  some  noise  within.     Dear  love,  adieu ! 

Nurse.  ]  Within.]  Madam  I 

Jul  Anon,  good  Nurse  1     Sweet  Montague,  be  true. 
Stay  but  a  little,  I  will  come  again.     [Exit  from  balcony.] 

Rom.  Oh !  blessed,  blessed  night  1     I  am  afeard, 
Being  in  night,  all  this  is  but  a  dream, 
Too  flattering  be  substantial 

Re-enter  Juliet,  above. 

Jul  Three  words,  dear  Romeo,  and  good  night,  indeed 
If  that  thy  bent  of  love  be  honorable, 
Thy  purpose  marriage,  send  me  word  to-morrow, 
By  one  that  I'll  procure  to  come  to  thee, 
Where,  ami  what  time,  thou  wilt  perform  the  rite; 
And  all  my  fortunes  at  thy  foot  I'll  lay ; 
And  follow  thee,  my  lord,  throughout  the  world. 

Xxrse  [Within.]  Madam! 

Jul  I  come  anon!     But,  if  thou  mean'st  not  well, 
I  do  beseech  thee — 
Nurse.  [Within. \  Madam! 

Jul  By  and  by,  I  come ! 
To  cease  thy  suit,  and  leave  me  to  my  grief. 


Ejomoisbb  ix  Elocuti<  159 

To-morrow  will  I  send. 

•n.  So  thrive  my  soul — 

////.  A  thousand  times  good  night! 

Rom%  A  thousand  times  the  worse,  to  want  thy  light.  \Krit.  | 
Re-enter  Jdlikt. 

Jul.  Hist!  Romeo,  histl     Oh,  for  a  falconer's  voice, 
To  lure  this  tassel  gentle  back  again ! 
Bondage  is  hoarse,  and  may  not  speak  aloud ; 
would  he  fear  the  cave  where  Echo  lies, 
And  make  her  airy  tongue  more  hoarse  than  mine, 
With  repetition  of  my  Romeo's  name. 
EtOMIO  entering. 

Rom.  It  is  my  love  that  calls  upon  my  name! 
How  silver-sweet  sound  lovers'  tongues  by  night, 
Like  softest  music  to  attending  ears! 

Jul  Romeo! 

Rom.  My  sweet! 

Jul  At  what  o'clock  to-morrow 
Shall  I  send  to  thee  ? 

Rom.  At  the  hour  of  nine. 

Jul.  I  will  not  fail :  'tis  twenty  years  till  then. 
T  nave  forgot  why  I  did  call  thee  back. 

Rom.  Let  me  stand  here  till  thou  remember  it 

Jul.  I  shall  forget,  to  have  thee  still  stand  there, 
Remeinb'ring  how  I  love  thy  company. 

Rom.  And  I'll  still  stay,  to  have  thee  still  forget, 
Forgetting  any  other  home  but  this. 

Jul.  'Tis  almost  morning;   I  would  have  thee  gone 
And  yet  no  further  than  a  wanton's  bird; 
Who  lets  it  hop  a  Little  from  la-r  hand, 
And  with  a  silk  thread  plucks  it  back  again, 
So  loving-jealous  of  its  liberty. 

I  would  I  were  thy  bird. 

Jul.  Sweet,  so  would  I  ! 
Yet  I  should  kill  thee  with  mneh  cherishing. 
Good  night,  good  night!     Parting  is  men  sweet  sorro* 
That  I  shall  say —  Good  night,  'till  it  be  morrow. 

|  Hx it  from  bah  A  , 


160  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

Rom.  Sleep  dwell  upon  thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  breast  I 
Would  I  were  sleep  and  peace,  so  sweet  to  rest  I 
Hence  will  I  to  my  ghostly  father's  cell; 
His  help  to  crave,  and  my  dear  hap  to  telL 


Jack  Horner. 
"  Little  Jack  Horner  sat  in  a  corner, 

Eating  a  Christ 
He  put  in  his  thumb 
And  pulled  out  a  plum, 

And  said,  ■  What  a  great  boy  am  L* n 

Ah !  the  world  has  many  a  Horner, 

Who,  seated  in  his  corner, 
Finds  a  Christmas  pie  provided  for  his  thumb, 

And  cries  out  with  exultation, 

When  successful  exploration 
Doth  discover  the  predestined  plum. 

Little  Jack  outgrows  his  tire, 

And  becometh  John,  Esquire, 
And  he  finds  a  monstrous  pastry  ready-made, 

Stuffed  with  notes  and  bonds  and  bales, 

With  invoices  and  sales, 
And  all  the  mixed  ingredients  of  trade. 

And  again  it  is  his  luck, 

To  be  just  in  time  to  pluck, 
By  a  "  clever  operation,"  from  the  pie 

An  unexpected  plum  ; 

So  he  glorifies  his  thumb, 
And  says,  proudly,  "  What  a  mighty  man  am  L" 

Or,  perchance,  to  science  turning, 

And,  with  weary  labor,  learning 
All  the  formulas  that  oppress  her, 

For  the  fruit  of  others  baking, 

So  a  fresh  diploma  taking, 
Comes  he  forth  a  full  accredited  professor. 


Mm. ercises  in  Elocution.  161 

Or  he's  not  too  nice  to  mix 

In  the  dish  of  politics ; 
And  the  dignity  of  office  he  put*  on; 

And  feels  as  big  again 

As  a  dozen  nobler  men, 
While  he  writes  himself  the  "Honorable  John." 

Not  to  hint  at  female  Homers, 

Who,  In  their  exclusive  corners, 
Think  the  world  is  only  made  of  upper  crust, 

And  in  the  funny  pie 

That  we  call  society, 
Their  dainty  fingers  delicately  thrust. 

Till  it  sometimes  comes  to  pass, 

In  the  spiced  and  sugared  mass, 
One  may  compass  (don't  they  call  it  so?)  a  catch; 

And  the  gratulation  given, 

Seems  as  if  the  very  heaven 
Had  outdone  itself  in  making  such  a  match. 

Oh,  the  world  keeps  Christmas  day 

In  a  queer  perpetual  way ; 
Shouting  always,  M  What  a  great,  big  boy  am  II  n 

Yet  how  many  of  the  crowd, 

Thus  vociferating  loud, 
And  all  its  accidental  honors  lifting  high, 

Have  really  more  than  Jack, 

With  all  their  lucky  knack, 
Had  a  finger  in  the  making  of  the  pie. 

Mother  Goose/or  Grown  People, 


Barbara  Frietchie. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  mom, 
The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand, 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 
Round  about  them  orchards  sw< 


1G2  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Apple  and  peach-trees  fruited  deep, 

as  a  garden  of  the  Lord, 
To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  Rebel  horde. 

On  that  pleasant  day  of  the  early  fall, 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, 
Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Bone  and  foot  into  Frederick  town, 
Forty  flags  with  the  silvery  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

:>ed  in  the  morning  wind;  the  ma 
Of  noon  looked  down  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 
She  took  up.  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down, 
In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 
Up  the  street  came  the  Rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 
"  Halt!" — the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast 
"  Fire  1"— out  blazed  the  rifle  blast ; 
It  shivered  the  window,  pane,  and  sash, 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 
Quick,  as  it  fell  from  the  broken  staff, 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf; 
She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will 

u  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  gray  old  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 
A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 
The  noble  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  Barbara's  deed  and  word : 


Si  rrmx.  163 

iy  head, 
Dies  like  a  d  b  on!"  be  said. 

All  day  lon<,'  through  Frederick  street, 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet, 
All  day  long  that  free  Bag  tossed 
Over  the  heads  of  the  Rebel  host; 
Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 
On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 
And.  through  the  hill-gaps,  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more; 

Honor  to  her !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 

Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union  wave! 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 

Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 

On  thy  stars  below  at  Frederick  town. 

Shatter. 


Which? 


The  following  tells  Its  own  story,  and  a  beautiful  one  It  is  too—  read* 
in:;  beel  an  i  Kmnding  iweeteet,  when  Um  family  circle  have  gathered 

uroiiu'l 

■  Whieh  shall  it  be?  which  shall  it  be?" 
I  looked  at  John  — John  looked  at  me 
(Dear,  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 

well  as  tho'  my  locks  were  jet). 
And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak, 
My  voice  W  ami  weak; 

''Ttll  me  again  what  Robert  said?  " 
my  head. 
This  is  his  let  • 

"  I  will  givo 
A  house  and  land  while  you  shall  live. 


164  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

If,  in  return,  from  out  your  seven, 
One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given." 

I  looked  at  John's  old  garments  worn, 

I  thought  of  all  that  John  had  borne 

Of  poverty,  and  work  and  care, 

Which  I,  though  willing,  could  not  spare  1 

Of  seven  hungry  mouths  to  feed, 

Of  sev<»n  little  children's  need, 

And  then  of  this. 

14  Come,  John,"  said  1. 
44  We'll  choo«B  among  them  as  they  lie 
Asleep;**  wo  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Dear  John  and  I  surveyed  our  band. 

First  to  the  cradle  lightly  stepped, 
Where  Lilian,  the  baby,  riept ; 
Her  damp  curls  lay  like  gold  alight, 
A  glory  'gainst  the  pillow  white, 
Softly  her  father  stooped  to  lay 
His  rough  hand  down  in  loving  way. 
When  drama  or  whisper  made  her  stir, 
And  huskily  he  said,  "Not  her — not  her.w 

We  stooped  beside  the  trundle-bed, 

And  one  long  ray  of  lamp-light  shed 

Athwart  the  boyish  faces  there 

In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  fair; 

I  saw  on  Jamie's  rough,  red  cheek 

A  tear  undried.     Ere  John  could  speak, 

m  He's  but  a  baby,  too,"  said  I, 

And  kissed  him  as  we  hurried  by. 

Pale,  patient  Robby's  angel  face 

Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering's  trace. 

"No,  for  a  thousand  crowns,  not  him," 

He  whispered,  while  our  eyes  were  dim, 

Poor  Dick!  sad  Dick!  our  wayward  son, 

Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one  — 

Could  he  be  spared  ?     "  Nay,  He  who  gave 


\RRCISES  IN  ^LOCUTION.  165 

Bids  us  befriend  him  to  the  grave ; 

Only  a  mother's  heart  can  be 

Patient  enough  for  such  as  he ; 

And  so,"  said  John,  "  I  would  not  dare 

To  send  him  from  her  bedside  prayer." 

Then  stole  we  softly  up  above, 

And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love, 

"  Perhaps  for  her  'twould  better  be," 

I  said  to  John.     Quite  silently 

He  lifted  up  a  curl  that  lay 

Across  her  cheek  in  willful  way. 

And  shook  his  head.     "Nay,  love,  not  thee," 

The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly, 

Only  one  more,  our  eldest  lad, 

Trusty  and  truthful,  good  and  glad  — 

So  like  his  father.     "  No,  John,  no — 

I  cannot,  will  not,  let  him  got " 

And  so  we  wrote,  in  courteous  way. 
We  could  not  give  one  child  away ; 
And  aflerwnrd  toil  lighter  seemed, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dreamed. 
Happy  in  truth  that  not  one  face 
We  missed  from  its  accustomed  place; 
Thankful  to  work  for  all  the  seven, 
Trusting  then  to  Onk  in  Hkavkn! 


The  Power  of  Habit 

I  remember  once  riding  from  Buffalo  to  the  Niagara  Falls.     I  said 
to  a  gentleman,  u  What  river  is  that,  sir?" 
.:,"  said  be,  ira  river." 

.1,  it  is  a  beautiful  stream,"  said  I;  "bright,  and  fair,  and 
glassy.     How  far  off  are  the  rapids  ?" 
"Only  a  mile  or  two,"  was  the  reply. 

I  possible  that  only  a  mile  from  OS,  we  shall  fit.d  the  v. 
••  hieh  it  must  show  near  the  Falls  P 


160  i:rcises  ix  Elocution. 

"  Yon  will  find  it  so,  sir."  And  so  I  found  it;  and  the  first  sigh* 
of  Niagara  I  shall  never  forget 

Now,  launch  your  bark  on  that  Niagara  river;  it  is  bright, 
smooth,  beautiful  and  glassy.  There  is  a  ripple  at  the  bow;  the 
silver  wake  you  leave  behind,  adds  to  your  enjoyment  Down  the 
stream  you  glide,  oars,  sails,  and  helm  in  proper  trim,  and  you  set 
out  on  your  pleasure  excursion. 

Suddenly,   some  one  cries  out  from  the  bank,    "  Young  men, 

at  is  it?" 

"  The  rapid*  are  below  you  /" 

p  Ha  I  ha !  we  have  heard  of  the  rapids ;  but  we  are  not  such 
fools  as  to  get  there.  If  we  go  too  fast,  then  we  shall  up  with  the 
helm,  an«l  st.rr  to  the  shore;  we  will  set  the  mast  in  the  socket, 
hoist  the  sail,  and  speed  to  the  land.  Then  on,  boys;  don't  be 
alarmed,  there  is  no  danq> 

"  Young  men,  ahoy  there  I " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  The  rapids  are  below  you  !  " 

"Ha!  ha!  we  will  laugh  and  quaff;  all  things  delight  us.     What 

care  we  for  the  future!     No  man  ever  saw  it.     Sufficient  for  the 

day  is  the  evil  thereof.     We  will  enjoy   life  while   we  may,   will 

ire  as  it  flies.     This  is  enjoyment;  time  enough  to  steer 

out  of  danger  when  we  are  sailing  swiftly  with  the  current" 

"YoUXO  MEN,  AnOYl" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Beware!  beware!  The  rapids  are  below  you!" 
"Now  you  see  the  water  foaming  all  around.  See  how  fast  you 
pass  that  point!  Up  with  the  helm!  Now  turn!  Pull  hard! 
Quick !  quick  I  quick !  pull  for  your  lives !  pull  till  the  blood  starts 
from  your  nostrils,  and  the  veins  stand  like  whip-cords  upon  your 
brow!  Set  the  mast  in  the  socket!  hoist  the  sail!  Ah!  ah!  it  i 
too  late  !     Shrieking,  howling,  blaspheming ;  over  they  go." 

Thousands  go  over  the  rapids  of  intemperance  every  year,  through 
the  power  of  habit,  crying  all  the  while,  "  When  I  find  out  that  it  is 
injuring  me,  I  luill  give  it  up  /" 

John  B.  Cfough. 


SxMBcmma  in  Elocuti>  167 

From  Ivanhoe 
Following  with  wonderful  promptitude  the  directions  of  Ivanhoe, 
and  availing  herself  of  the  protection  of  the  large  ancient  shield, 
which  she  placed  against  the  lower  part  of  the  window,  Rebecca, 
With  tolerable  security  to  herself,  could  witness  part  of  what  was 
ithoat  the  castle,  and  report  to  Iyanhoe  the  preparation* 
which  the  assailants  were  making  for  the  storm. 

'"The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers,  although  only 

are  advanced  from  its  dark  sha-dow." 
*' Under  what  banner?"  asked  Ivanhoe. 

"  Under  uo  ensign  of  war  which  I  can  observe,"  answered  Re- 
becca, 

"  A  singular  novelty,"  muttered  the  knight,  "  to  advance  to  storm 
ench  a  castle  without  pennon  or  banner  displayed  1  Seest  thou  who 
they  be  that  act  as  leaders?" 

"A  knight,  clad  in  sable  armor,  is  the  most  conspicuous,"  said 
s ;  u  he  alone  is  armed  from  head  to  heel,  and  seems  to 
assume  the  direction  of  all  around  him." 

"  What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield  ?  "  replied  Ivanhoe. 
'Something  resembling  a  bar  of  iron,  and  a  padlock  painted  blue 
on  the  black  shield." 

•tterlock  and  shacklebolt  azure,"  said  Ivanhoe;  "I  know 
not  who  may  bear  the  device,  but  well  I  ween  it  might  now  be 
own.     Canst  thou  not  see  the  motto?" 
"Scarce  the  device  itself,  at  this  distance,"  replied  Rebecca;  "but 
when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his  shield,  it  shows  as  I  tell  you." 

i  other  leaders?"  exclaimed  the  anxious  inquirer. 
"None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I  can  behold  from  this  sta- 
tion," said  Rebecca;  "but,  d<  other  side  of  the  castle  is 
assailed     They  appear  even  now  preparing  to  advao 

;«tion  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  signal  for 
assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast  of  a  shrill  bugle,  and  at  once 
ered  by  a  flourish  of  the  Norman  trumpets  from  the  battle- 
: 

•  here  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  exclaimed  Ivan- 
hoe, "  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is  played  out 
by  the  hand  of  others  1     Look  from  the  window  once  again,  kind 
8 


168  EXERCISES  IN  EL0CUT1 

maiden,  but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  be 
neath,  look  out  once  more,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the 
storm." 

With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval   which  -ho 
had  employed  in  mental  devotion,  Rebecca  again  took  post  at  the 
lattice,  sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  to  be  visible  from 
ath.  * 

"  What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?"  again  demanded  the  wounded 
-lit. 

"Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle 
mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them." 

"That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe;  "if  they  press  not  right 
on  to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery  may  avail 
but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look  for  the  Knight 
of  the  Fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for, 
as  the  leader  is,  so  will  his  followers  be." 

"  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

il  craven  1"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe;  "does  he  blench  from  the 
helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest?" 

"  He  blenches  not  I  he  blenches  not  1 "  said  Rebecca;  u  I  see  him 
now;  he  leads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of  the 
barbican.  They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades ;  they  hew  down 
the  barriers  with  axes.  His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over  the 
throng,  like  a  raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  They  have  made  a 
breach  in  the  barriers — they  rush  in  —  they  are  thrust  back  I 
Front-de-Bceuf  heads  the  defenders ;  I  see  his  gigantic  form  above 
the  press.  They  throng  again  to  the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  dis- 
puted hand  to  hand,  and  man  to  man.  It  is  the  meeting  of  two 
fierce  tides  —  the  conflict  of  two  oceans,  moved  by  adverse  winds!" 

She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer  to  endure 
a  sight  so  terrible. 

"  Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the  cause 
of  her  retiring;  "the  archery  must  in  some  degree  have  ceased 
since  they  are  now  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Look  again ;  there  is 
now  less  danger." 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed: 

"Front-de-Bceuf  and  the  Black  Knight  fight  hand  to  hand  on  the 
breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their  followers,  who  watch  the  progress 


/.XKRCISES  IN  J£LOCUTIOIT.  ICO 

of  the  strife.  Heaven  strike  with  the  cause  of  the  oppressed,  and 
of  the  captive! " 

She  then  uttered  a  loud  shriek,  and  exclaimed: 

"  He  is  down  !  — he  is  downl  " 

"Who  is  down?"  cried  Ivanhoe.  "For  our  dear  lady's  sake, 
tell  me  which  has  fallen  ?" 

"The  Black  Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  faintly;  then  instantly 
D  shouted,  with  joyful  eagerness,  "But  no  —  but  nol — he  is 
or.  foot  again,  and  fights  as  if  there  were  twenty  men's  strength  in 
;:igle  arm  —  his  sword  is  broken  —  he  snatches  an  axe  from  a 
yeoman  —  he  presses  Front-de-Bceuf  with  blow  on  blow  —  the 
giant  stoops  and  totters,  like  an  oak  under  the  steel  of  the  wood- 
man—  he  falls  —  he  falls!  " 

"  Front-de-Boeuf?  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  Front-de-Bceuf  I"  answered  the  Jewess.  "His  men  rush  to 
the  rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  Templar — their  united  force 
compels  the  champion  to  pause  —  they  drag  Front-de-Bceuf  within 
the  walls." 

"The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not?"  said 
Ivanhoe, 

41  They  have  —  they  have ! "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  and  they  press 
the  beseiged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some  plant  ladders,  some 
swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulders  of  each 
other  —  down  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their 
heads;  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  men  to  the  rear,  fresh 
men  supply  their  place  in  the  assault.  Great  God!  hast  thou  given 
men  thine  own  image,  that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the 
hands  of  their  brethren  I  " 

"  Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe;  "this  is  no  time  for  such 
thoughts.     Who  yield? — who  push  their  way?" 

"The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shuddering. 
"The  soldiers  lie  groveling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles  — the 
I  \e  the  better  I  " 

"Saint  George  strike  for  us!"  exclaimed  the  knight;  "do  the 
false  yeomen  give  way  ?  " 

"No!"  exclaimed  Rebecca;  "they  bear  themselves  right  yeo- 
manly — the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with  his  huge 
axe — the  thundering  blows  which  he  deals,  you  may  hear  th.ni 


170  JlxEiicisEs  m  Elocution. 

above  all  the  din  and  shouts  of  the  battle  —  stones  and  beams  are 
hailed  down  on  the  bold  champion  —  he  regards  them  no  more  than 
if  they  were  thistledown  or  feathers  I  " 

"  By  Saint  John  of  Acre ! "  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself  joy- 
fully on  his  couch  ;  u  methought  there  was  but  one  man  in  England 
that  might  do  such  a  deed  !  " 

"The  postern  gate  shakes,"  continued  Rebecca;  "it  crashes- 
it  is  splintered  by  his  blows  —  they  rush  in  —  the  outwork  is  won  — 
they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the  battlements —  they  throw  them 
into  the  moat  1  Oh,  men  —  if  ye  be  indeed  men  —  spare  them  that 
can  resist  no  longer  1 " 

"  The  bridge,  the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle, 
have  they  won  th.it  pass?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

''No,"  replied  Rebecca;  "the  Templar  has  destroyed  the  plank 
on  which  they  crossed  —  few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him 
into  the  castle — the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear,  tell  the  fate 
of  the  others  I  Alas  I  I  see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon 
victory  than  upon  battle  1  " 

"  What  do  they  now,  maiden  ?  "  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  look  forth  yet 
■gain  —  this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed." 

"It  is  over  for  the    time,"  ;    Rebecca.     "Our   friends 

hen  themselves  within  the  outwork  which  they  have  mas- 
tered, and  it  affords  them  so  good  a  shelter  from  the  foeman's  shot, 
that  the  garrison  only  bestow  a  few  bolts  on  it,  from  interval  to 
interval,  as  if  rather  to  disquiet  than  effectually  to  injure  them." 

Waller  ScoU. 


Rip  Van  Winkle, 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the  village 
inn  —  but  it  too  was  gone.     A  large  rickety  wooden  building  stood 

its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of  them  broken  and 
mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the  door  was  painted, 
"The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle."  Instead  of  the  great 
tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little  Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there 
now  was  reared  a  tall,  naked  pole,  with  something  on  the  top  that 
looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  "from  it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on 


Exercises  is  Elocuti  171 

h  was  a  singular  assemblage  of  stars  and  stripes  —  all  this  was 
strange  and  incomprehensible.     He  recognized  on  the  sign,  how- 
,  the  ruby  face  of  King  George,  under  which  he  had  smoked  so 
m  my  a  peaceful  pipe;  but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed. 
The  red  coat  was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  a  sword  was 
held  in  the  hand  instead  of  a  scepter,  the  head  was  decorated  with 
a  cocked  hat,    ami  underneath   was   painted   in   large   characters, 
vl  Washington. 
There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but  none 
that  Rip  recollected.     The  very  character  of  the  people  seemed 
changed.     There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious  tone  about  it, 
id  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and   drowsy  tranquillity.     He 
looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Vedder,  with  his  broad  foe, 
double  chin,  and  fair  long  pipe,  uttering  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke 
ad  of  idle  speeches;  or  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling 
forth  the  contents  of  an  ancient  newspaper.     In  place  of  these,  a 
lean,  bilious-looking  fellow,  with  his  pockets  full  of  handbills,   was 
haranguing  vehemently  about  rights  of  citizens  —  elections  —  mera- 
Ders  of  Con _-!•-•> liberty — Bunker's  Hill — heroes  of   seventy- 
six —  and  other  words,  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to 
the  bewildered  Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,   with  his  long  grizzled  beard,  his  rusty 
fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women  and  child- 
ren at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the  tavern  politicians. 
.  led  areund  him,    eying  him  from  head  to  foot  with  great 
curiosity.     The  orator  bustled  up  to  him,  and,  drawing  him  partly 
aside,  inquired  "on  which  side  he  voted ?'*     Rip  stared  in  vacant 
lity.     Another  short  but  busy  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the 
and,  rising  on  tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "whether  he  was 
nocrat?"     Rip  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  comprehend 
on;  when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a 
sharp  cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  putting  them 
i   left  with  his  elbows  as  he  passed,  and  planting 
Vim  Winkle,  with  one  arm  akimbo,  the  other  resting 
on  his  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and   sharp  hat  penetrating,  as  it  H 
into  his  very  soul,  demanded,  in  an  austere  tone,  "what  brought 
him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  mob  at  his 
heels,   and   whether  he   meant   to   breed  a  riot    in  the  villa 


172  ExEROiaBS  i.\  Elocution. 

"Alas!  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am  a  poor 
quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of  the  king, 
God  bless  him!" 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "A  tory!  a 
tory  !  a  spy!  a  refugee  I  hustle  him!  away  with  him!"  It  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  the  self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat 
restored  order;  and,  having  assumed  a  tenfold  austerity  of  brow, 
demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit,  what  he  came  there  for 
and  whom  he  was  seeking?  The  poor  man  humbly  assured  bio 
that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely  came  there  in  search  of  some 
of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep  ab<>ut  the  tavern. 

"  Well,  who  are  they  ?    Name  them." 

u  Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedd< : 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  replied, 
in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "Nicholas  Vedder!  why,  he  is  dead  and 
gone  these  eighteen  years!  There  was  a  wooden  tombstone  in  the 
churchyard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him,  but  that's  rotten  and 
gone  too." 

"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war;  some 
6ay  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony  Point — others  say  he 
was  drowned  in  a  squall  at  the  foot  of  Antony's  Nose.  I  don't 
know — he  never  came  back  again." 

"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 

"  He  went  off  to  the  wars  too,  was  a  great  militia  general,  and  is 
now  in  Congress." 

Rip's  heart  died  away  at  hearing  of  these  sad  changes  in  his  home 
and  friends,  and  finding  himself  thus  alone  in  the  world.  Every 
answer  puzzled  him  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous  lapses  of 
time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand:  war — Con- 
gress— Stony  Point;  he  had  no  courage  to  ask  after  any  more 
friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody  here  know  Rip  Van 
Winkle?" 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle !"  exclaimed  two  or  three,  "  Oh,  to  be 
sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the  tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself,  as  he 
went  up  the  mountain  :  apparently  as  lazy,  and  certainly  as  ragged. 


T7XERC1SES  IN  ELOCUTION,  173 

poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded.     He  doubted  his 
own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or  another  man.     In  the 
wildennent,  the  man  in  the  cocked  hat  demanded 
who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

"  God  knows,"  exclaimed  he,  at  his  wit's  end ;  u  I'm  not  myself — 
I'm  somebody  else — that's  me  yonder — no — that's  somebody  else 
got  into  my  shoes — I  was  myself  last  night,  but  I  fell  asleep  on  the 
mountain,  and  they've  changed  my  gun,  and  every  thing's  changed, 
and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell  what's  my  name,  or  who  I  am  !  " 

The  bystanders  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 
significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads.  There 
■  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keeping  the  old 
fellow  from  doing  mischief,  at  the  very  suggestion  of  which  the 
self-important  man  in  the  cocked  hat  retired  with  some  precipitation 
At  this  critical  moment  a  fresh,  comely  woman  pressed  through  the 
throng  to  get  a  peep  at  the  gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby 
child  in  her  arms,  which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  began  to  cry 
"Hush,-Rip,"  cried  she,  "hush,  you  little  fool;  the  old  man  won't 
hurt  you."  The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone 
of  her  voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind, 
t  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  ?  "  asked  he. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 

"  And  your  father's  name?" 

"  Ah !  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name,  but  it's  twenty 

years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never  has 

heard  of  since — his  dog  came  home  without  him  ;  but  whether 

he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians,  nobody  can 

tell.     I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Rip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it  with  a  fal- 
tering voice: 

'•  Where's  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  the  lied  but  a  short  time  since;  she  broke  a  blood- 

vessel in  a  fit  of  paaeioa  at  a  New  England  peddler." 

There  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  in  this  intelligence. 

D  OOnld  contain  himself  no  longer.     lie  caught  his  daugh- 
ter and  her  child  in  his  arms.     "  I  am  your  father!"   cried  he — 
ui  Winkle  once — old  Rip  Van  Winkle  now  I     Does 
nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 


I'M  krcises  in  Elocution. 

All  stood  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from  among 
the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under  it  in  his 
face  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure  enough!  it  is  Rip  Van  Win- 
kle— it  is  himself!  Welcome  home  again,  old  neighbor.  Why, 
where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 

Rip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  long  years  had 
to  him  but  as  one  night 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  anil  returned 
to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's  daughter 
him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a  snug,  well-furnished 
house,  and  a  sto  er  for  a  husband,  whom  Rip  recol- 

lected for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb  upon  his  back. 

The  old  Dutch  inhabitants  almost  universally  gave  it  full  credit. 
Even  to  this  day  th<  hear  a  thunder-storm  of  ■  summer 

afternoon  about  the  Kaatskill,  but  they  say  Heodrick  Hudson  and 
his  crew  are  at  their  game  of  nin«  I  it  is  a  common  wish 

of  all  henpecked  husbands  in  the  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs 
heavy  on  their  hands,  that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draught  out 
of  Rip  Van  Winkle's  flagon.  („P# 


Are  the  Children  at  Home  ? 

Each  day  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  tripping  lightly  by, 
I  steal  away  from  my  husband, 

Asleep  in  his  easy-chair, 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead 

That  once  was  full  of  life, 
Ringing  with  girlish  laughter, 

Echoing  with  boyish  strife, 
We  two  are  waiting  together ; 

And  oft,  as  the  shadows  come, 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me, 

"Tt  is  night!  are  the  children  home?' 


A'\  !  U9  J'Jlocctio*.  Ill 

love!"  I  answer  him  gently, 

"  They're  all  home  long  ago ;" 
And  sing,  in  my  quivering  treble, 

A  song  so  soft  and  low, 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumber, 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number 

Home  in  the  better  land — 

Home,  where  never  a  sorrow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  with  tears! 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years ! 
I  know  1 — yet  my  arms  are  empty, 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  heaven. 

Sometimes,  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  all  about  rae — 

A  vision  from  the  skies ; 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lost  the  way  to  my  breast, 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels, 

Passed  to  the  world  of  the  blessed. 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  them, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows; 
My  boys  that  I  gave  to  freedom — 

The  red  sword  sealed  their  vows ! 
In  a  taugled  Southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers,  bold  and  brave, 
fell ;  and  the  flag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God!  floats  o'er  their  grave. 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  the  wings  of  1 
An1  a 

All  ilOM  in  t:. 

8* 


1V6  IX  ELOCUTION. 

They  tell  me  Mi  mind  is  failing, 

But  I  smile  at  idle  f 
He  is  only  back  with  the  children, 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And  still  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  n 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner, 

"Say,  love,  have  the  children  comer' 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted, 

,  dear,  they  are  all  at  home  1" 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


Prom  the  "School  for  Scandal" 

Sir  Peter.  Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I'll  not  bear  it. 

Lady  Teazle.  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  yon  may  bear  it  or  not,  as  you 

please;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own   way  in  every  thing;    and 

what's  more,   I   will   too.     What!  though   I    was  educated  in  the 

country,  I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in  Loudon  are 

:  table  to  nobody  after  they  are  married. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well — so  a  husband  is  to  have  no 
iuflueuce,  no  authority  ? 

Lady  T.  Authority!  No,  to  be  sure:  if  you  wanted  authority  over 
me  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not  married  me.  I  am  sure 
you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  P.  Old  enough  ! — ay — there  it  is.  Well,  well,  Lady  Teazle, 
though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  your  temper,  I'll  not  be 
ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  T.  My  extravagance !  I  am  sure  I  am  not  more  extrava- 
gant thau  a  woman  ought  to  be. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more  sums 
upon  such  unmeaning  luxury.  You  spend  as  much  to  furnish  your 
dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would  suffice  to  turn  the 
Pantheon  into  a  green-house. 

Lady  T.  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame  because  flowers  are  dear  in 
cold  weather?     You  should  find  fault  with  the  climate,  and  not  with 


/:.V ER CISES  IN  E LOCI  1 1  177 

my   part,  I'm  sure,    I  wish  it  were  spring  all  the  year 
round,  ami  that  roses  grow  under  our  fret. 

/'.  Z  mnds  !    M  I  lam  ;  if  you  had  been  born  to  this,  I  should 
not  wonder  at  your  talking  thus;  but  you  forget  what  your  situa- 
v;is  when  I  married  you. 
Lady  T.  No,  no,  I  don't;  'twas  a  very  disagreeable  one  —  or  I 
should  never  have  married  you. 

es,   madam,  you  were  then  in  a  somewhat  humbler 

—the   daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire.      Recollect,  Lady 

tie,  when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your  tambour,  in  a  pretty 

figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  side;  your  hair 

combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and  your  apartment  hung  round  with 

frultfl  in  worsted  of  your  own  working. 

Lady  T.  Oh  yes  1  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious  life  I 
1.1— my  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superintend  the 
poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  receipt-book,  and  comb  my 
aunt  Deborah's  lap-dog. 

s,  ma'am  'twas  so  indeed. 

Lady  7!  And  then,  you  know,  my  evening  amusements,  to  draw 

rns  for  rufiles,  which  I  had  not  the  materials  to  make  up ;  to 

Joan  with  the  curate ;  to  read  a  novel  to  my  aunt ;  or  to 

i<-k  down  to  an  old  spinnet  to  strum  my  father  to  sleep  after  a 

fox  chase. 

Sir  P.  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory.     Yes,  madam 

Were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from;  but  now  you  must 

your  coach — vis-a-vis — and   three  powdered  footmen  before 

i,  in  summer,  a  pair  of  white  cats  to  draw  you  to 

ington  Gardens.     No  recollection,  I  suppose,  when  you  were 

ride  double  behind  the  butler,  on  a  docked   coach-horse. 

Lady  T.    No — I   never  did   that;     I   deny   the   butler  and   the 

coach-! 

madam,  was  your  situation  ;  and  what  have  I  dona 
u  ?     I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune,  of  rank ; 
in  ah  made  you  my  v 

Lady  T.   Well  then;  and  there  is  hut  one  thing  more  you  can 
make  me,  to  add  to  the  obligation,  and  that  is — 
1  -up  pose. 
/'  Bern  I 


178  :sks  ix  Elocution. 

P.  I  thank  you,  madam;  but  don't  flatter  yourself,  for  t' 
your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  it  shall  never 
my  heart,  I  promise  you.  However,  I  am  equally  obliged  t 
for  the  hint 

Lady  T.  Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  thwart  me  in  every  little 
expense,  and  make  yourself  so  disagreeable  to  me  ? 

P.  Had  you  any  of  these  little  elegant  expenses  when  you 
married  me? 

/  T.  Sir  Peter,  would  you  have  me  out  of  the  fashion  ? 
Sir  P.  The  fashion,  indeed!  What  had  you  to  do  with  the  fashion 
before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  7!  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have  your 

tonght  a  woman  of  taste. 
Sir  P.  Ay ;    there  again — taste.     Zounds  1   Madam,  you  had  no 
taste  when  you  married  me! 

Lady  T.   i  !<ed,  Sir  Peter;  and  having  married 

you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I  allow.     But  now,  Sir 
have  finished  our  daily  jangle,  I  presume  I  may  go 
to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance — a  charming  set 
of  acquaintances  you  have  made  there. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  all  people  of  rank  and  fortune, 
and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  P.  Y  re  tenacious  of  reputation  with  a  vengeance; 

y  don't  choose  any  body  should  have  a  character  but  them- 

I     Such  a  crew !     Ah !  many  a  poor  wretch  has  rid  on  a 

hurdle  who  has  done  less  mischief  than   these  utterers  of  forged 

tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  T.  What!  would  your  restrain  the  freedom  of  speech? 
Sir  P.  Ah !  they  have  made  you  as  bad  as  any  one  of  the  society. 
Lady  T.  Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolerable  grace. 
Sir  P.  Grace,  indeed ! 

Lady  T.  But  I  declare  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I  abuse 
[  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure  good  humor;  and 
take  it  for  granted,  they  deal  exactly  so  with  me.     But,  Sir  Peter, 
you  know  you  promised  to  come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

P.   Well,  well,  I'll  call  in  just  to  look  after  my  own  charac- 
ter. 


E  1  I  ROOMS  in  Elocutiox.  17$ 

liter  me,  or  you'll  be 
too  late.    So,  •  to  yoa     \BacA  Lady  T.] 

go — 1  iKlve  gained  much  by  my  intended  expostulation; 

yet  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts  every  thing  I  say,  and 

rt  her  contempt  for  my  authority!     Well, 

t  make  her  love  me,  hut  there  is  a  satisfaction  in  quarreling 

with  her;  and  I  think  she  never  appears  to  such  advantage  as  when 

ihe  is  doing  every  thing  in  her  power  to  plague  me. 

SCENE    II. 

Lady  T.  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you  haven't  been  quarreling  with 
Maria  ?  It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humored  when  I  am  not 
by. 

Sir  P.  Ah  I  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the  power  to  make  me 
good-humored  at  all  times. 

Lady  T.  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had;  for  I  want  you  to  be  in  charm- 
ing sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good-humored  now,  and 
let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you? 

P.  Two  hundred  pounds!     What!  ain't    I  to  be  in  a  good 
humor  without  paying  for  it?     But  speak  to  me  thus,  and  i'  faith 
s  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.     You  shall  have  it;  but  seal  me 
a  bond  of  re-payment. 

'y  T.  Oh,  no ;  there — my  note  of  hand  will  do  as  well.     (Of- 
her  hand.) 
Sir  P.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not  giving  you 
an  independent  settlement.     I  meat  shortly  to  surprise  you;  but 
shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey? 

Lady  T. — If  you  please.     I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
off  quarreling,  provided  you'll  own  you're  tired  out  first 

;   then  let  our  future  contest  be,   who  shall  be  most 

Lady  T.  I  a>surc  you,  Sir  Peter,  good  nature  becomes  you ;  you 

now  as  you  did  before  we  urried,  when  you  used  to 

Walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a  gallant 

lr  youth,  and  chuck  me  n:  >uld  ; 

and  l  I  could  love  an  old  fei.  >uld  deny 

•  -didn't  ] 

,  yes,  and  you  were  kind  and  attentive — 


180  BXMMClSma  ix  Slo 

Lady  T.  Aye,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  take  your  part  when 
my  acquaintance  would  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  P.  Indeed ! 

Lady  T.  Aye,  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  has  called  you  a  stiff, 
peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of  marrying 
ho  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defeuded  you,  and  said 
I  didn't  think  you  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  P.  Thank  you. 

Lady  T.    And  I  dared  say  would  make  a  very  good  sort  of 
husband 

Sir  P.  An<*  you  prophesied  right ;  and  we  shall  be  the  happiest 
couple — 

Lady  T.  And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  P.  No,  never  I  though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my  dear  Lady 
Teazle,  you  must  watch  your  temper  very  seriously ;  for  in  all  our 
little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love,  you  always  begin 

Lady  T.  I  beg  your   pardon,    my  dear  Sir   Peter;  indeed  you 
s  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  P.  Now  see,  my  angel,  take  care — contradicting  isn't  the  way 
p  friends. 

Lady  T.  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love. 

Sir  P.  There  now  1   you — you — are  going  on.     You  don't  per- 
my  life,  that  you  are  doing  the  very  thing  which  you  know 
always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any  reason, 
my  dear — 

Sir  P.  There,  now,  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  T.  You  are  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy  said  you  would  be. 

Sir  P.  Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent  gypsy. 

Lady  T.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I'm  sure,  to  abuse  my  rela- 
tions. 

Sir  P.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled  on  me 
if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more. 

Lady  T.  So  much  the  better. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam ;  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a  pin  tor 
me.  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you — a  pert  rural  coquette, 
had  refused  half  a  dozen  honest  squires  in  the  neighborhood. 


RltR  •7.S//.S   i.x   Elocutiox.  181 

Lady  T.  And  I  was  a  fool  to  raarry  you,  an  old  dangling  bachelor, 
;.t  fitly,  onlj  because  no  one  would  have  him. 

Sir  P.  You  were  pleased  enough  to  listen  to  me.  You  never  had 
such  an  off 

Lady  T.  No !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  every  body 
said  would  have  been  a  better  match?  for  his  estate  is  just  as  good 
as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have  been  married. 

Sir  P.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam  I  You  are  an  unfeeling, 
ungrateful — but  there's  an  end  of  every  thing.  A  separate  mainte- 
nance as  soon  as  you  please.  Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce!  I'll  make 
an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelor*. 

Lady  T.  Agreed  1  agreed  1  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  we  are 
of  a  mind  once  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple  in  the  world — 
and  never  differ  again,  you  know — ha  1  ha!  ha  1  Well,  you  are 
going  to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you ;  so 
bye-bye.     {Exit  Lady  T.) 

Sir  P.  Plagues  and  tortures!  Can't  I  make  her  angry  either!  0, 
I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow !  But  I'll  not  bear  her  presuming  to 
keep  her  temper;  no!  she  may  break  my  heart,  but  she  shan't  keep 
her  temper. 

Sheri'ltin. 


Liberty  and  Independence, 
July  4,  1776. 

There  was  tumult  in  the  city, 

In  the  quaint  old  Quaker  town, 
And  the  streets  were  rife  with  people 

Pacing  restless  up  and  down  ; 
People  gathering  at  corners, 

Where  they  whispered  each  to  each, 
And  the  sweat  stood  on  their  temples, 

With  the  earnestness  of  speeclu 

As  the  bleak  Atlantic  currents 

L    b  the  wild  Newfoundland  shore. 
8o  they  beat  aga  ite  House, 


182  -in  Elocution. 

And  the  mingling  of  their  voices 

Made  a  harmony  profound, 
Till  tin-  <  (of  Chestnut 

Was  all  turbulent  with  souud. 

"  Will  they  do  it?  "  "  Dare  they  do  it?  * 

u  Who  is  speaking?"  "  What's  the  news?' 
"  What  of  Adams?"  "What  of  Sherman?" 

"  Oh !  God  grant  they  won't  refuse ;  ' 
11  Make  some  way  there  1  "  u  Let  me  nearer! ' 

"I  am  stifling!"     "Stifle,  then! 
When  a  nation's  life's  at  hazard, 

We've  no  time  to  think  of  mm." 

8o  they  beat  against  the  portal, 

Man  and  woman,  maid  and  child; 
And  the  July  sun  in  heaven 

On  i  looked  down  and  smiled. 

The  same  sun  that  saw  the  Spartan 

Shed  his  patriot  blood  in  vain, 
Now  beheld  the  soul  of  freedom, 

All  unconquered  rise  again. 

See !  see !  the  dense  crowd  quivers 

Through  all  its  lengthy  Hue, 
As  the  b  he  portal 

Looks  forth  to  give  the  sign; 
With  his  little  hands  uplifted, 

Breezes  dallying  with  his  hair, 
Hark !  with  deep,  clear  intonation 

Breaks  his  young  voice  on  the  air. 

Hushed  the  people's  swelling  murmur, 

List  the  boy's  exulting  cry  I 
"Ring!"  he  shouts,  "ring!  grandpa, 

Ring!  oh,  ring  for  Liberty!" 
Quickly  at  the  given  signal 

The  old  bellman  lifts  his  hand, 
Forth  he  sends  the  good  news,  making 

Iron  music  through  the  land. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  188 

How  they  shouted !  what  rejoicing ! 

How  the  old  bell  shook  the  air, 
Till  the  clang  of  freedom  ruflled 

The  calmly  gliding  Delaware. 
How  the  bonfires  ;vn«i  the  torches 

Lighted  ap  the  night's  repose, 
And  from  flames,  like  fabled  Phoenix, 

Our  glorious  liberty  arose. 

»t  old  State  House  bell  is  silent, 

Hashed  is  now  its  eUmoroas  tongue; 
But  the  spirit  it  awak- 

Still  is  living — ever  young; 
And  when  we  greet  the  smiling  sunlight, 

On  the  fourth  of  each  July, 
\  ne'er  forget  the  bellman, 

Who,  betwixt  the  earth  and  sky, 
Rang  out  loudly  "Indkpkndknck," 

Which,  please  God,  shall  never  die. 


Mary  Maloney's  Philosophy. 

"  What  are  you  singing  for?"  said  I  to  Mary  Maloney. 
M  Oh,   I  don't  know,  ma'am,  without  it's  because  my  heart  feeli 
happy.'* 

1,  Mary  Maloney?     Let  me  see;  you  don't  own 
a  foot  of  land  in  the  world  ?" 

is  it  ? ".she  cried,  with  a  hearty  Irish  laugh;.*'  ohf 
what  a  hand  ye  be  after  joking ;  why,  I  haven't  a  penny,  let  alone 

sd  I" 

•y  Maloney,  with  a  touch  of 
genuine  pathos;  "may  the  angels  make  her 
is  still  a  hard  case,  I  sopp 

1  say   that.     It's  nothing  but  drink,  drink. 
that  she  is,  the  creature  " 
.our  lit tK-  sister's  board." 


184  in  Elocution. 

"Sure,  the  bit  creature,  and  she's  a  good  little  girl,  is  ninny, 
willing  to  do  whatever  I  axes  her.  I  don't  grudge  the  money  what 
goes  for  that" 

"  You  haven't  many  fashionable  dresses  either,  Mary  Maloney." 

hioii;ible,  is  it?     Oh,  yes,  I  put  a  piece  of  whalebone  in  my 

skirt,  and  me  calico  gown  looks  as  big  as  the  great  ladies'.     But 

-•  says  tn;  but  two  gowns  to  me  back,  two  shoes  to 

■  t,  and  one  bonnet  to  me  head,  barring  the  old  hood  ye  gave 

'•  Koa  haven't  any  lover,  Mary  Maloney." 

"Oh,  be  oil'  wi.l  ye — ken  h   M.uy  Maloney  getting  a  lover  these 
when   the  hard  times  is  come.     No,  no,    thank  Heaven   I 
haven't  got  that  to  trouble  me  yet,  nor  I  don't  want  it." 

''What  on  earth,   then,   have  you  got  to  make  you  happy  ?     A 

drunken  brother,  a  poor  helpless  sister,  no   mother,  no  father,  no 

en  do  you  get  all  your  happiness  from?" 

"  The  L<  t  growed  up  in  me.     Give  me  a  bit 

of  sunshine,  a  clean  flure,  plenty  of  work,  and  a  sup  at  the  right 

ind  I'm  made.     That  makes  me  laugh  and  sing,  and  then  if 

touble  comes,  why,  God  helpin'  me,  I'll  try  to  keep  my  heart 

up.     Sure,  it  would  be  a  sad  thing  if  Pati  ie  should  take  it 

it.to  his  head  to  come  an  ax  me,  but,  the  Lord  willin',  I'd  try  to  bear 

up  under  it." 

Phi'adelphia  Bulletin, 


The  Ballad  of  Babie  BelL 

L 
Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar: 

With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 

Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glittering  depths  of  even, 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 


Kzmmcisba  /.v  Elocution  ]6fi 

O'er  which  the  white-wingeil  angels  go, 

.  ing  the  holy  dead  to  heaven! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers,  those  feet, 

So  light  they  did  not.  bend  the  bells 

Of  the  celestial  asphodels! 
They  fell  like  dew  upon  the  flowers, 

Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ; 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours. 

n. 

Bhe  came  and  brought  delicious  May, 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves; 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went,  the  livelong  day; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine; 
ily,  softly,  twilight  fell! 
Oh,  earth  was  full  of  singing  birds, 

And  opening  spring-tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours ! 

m 

O  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
How  fair  she  grew  from  day  to  day! 

What  woman-nature  filled  her  eyes, 
y  within  them  lay  I 
Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 

So  full  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright, 

As  it  light 

Of  those  opened  gates  of  paradise  1 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more; 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  ; 
We  felt  we  had  a  link 
This  real  world  ami  that  unseen, 
laud  beyond  the  morn'' 


186  krcises  ix  Elocution. 

And  for  the  lore  of  those  dear  eyes 

For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise  ) — 
For  love  of  him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain, 
We  said,  "  Dear  Christ ! "  our  hearts  bent  down 
Like  violets  after  rain. 

IV. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 

And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime, 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  ■oftroheeked  peaobei  blushed  and  fell, 
The  irory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grape  hung  purpling  in  the  grange, 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 

And  in  her  features  we  could  trace, 

In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face, 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too, 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came, 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now, 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring  of  flame  ! 


God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 
That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech; 

And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words, 
Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 

She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key ; 

We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things, 

She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


Ex  'i -non.  187 

VL 
It  Came  upon  us  by  degrees, 

We  saw  its  shadow  'ere  it  fell, 
The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  moMdiflor  for  Babie  BelL 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 
And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears, 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 
"  Oh,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God ! 
Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief," 
Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 
Her  heart  wao  folded  deep  in  ours; 

Our  hearts  are  broken  Babie  BelL 

TO 

At  last  he  came,  the  messenger, 

The  messenger  from  unseen  lands, 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell? 

She  only  crossed  her  ha: 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  I 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair; 
We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow, 

Wrapped  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers, 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Out  of  this  world  of  ours  1 

Thomas  Bailey  AldricK 


The  Irishwoman's  Letter. 
And  sure,  I  was  tould  to  come  in  till  yer  honer, 
To  see  would  \  i  me  Pat, 

He's  gone  for  a  soger  is  Mist  her  O'Conner, 

DO  his  arm,  and  a  band  on  his  hat. 

And  what  'ill  ye  tell  him?  shure  it  must  be  aisy 
For  the  likes  of  yer  honor  to  spake  with  the  pen, 


188  Kxkrcises  in  Elocution. 

Tell  him  I'm  well,  and  mavourneen  Daisy 
(The  baby  yer  honor),  is  better  again. 

For  when  he  wint  off  so  sick  was  the  crayther, 
She  niver  hilt  up  her  blue  eyes  till  his  face; 

And  when  I'd  bo  ci  via  he'd  look  at  me  wild  like, 
And  ax  "would  I  wish  for  the  counthry's  disgrace.** 

So  he  left  her  in  danger,  an  me  sorely  gravin, 
And  followed  the  flag  wid  an  Irishman's  joy; 

And  its  often  I  drame  of  the  big  drums  a  batin, 
And  a  bullet  gone  straight  to  the  heart  of  my  boy. 

Tell  him  to  sind  us  a  bit  of  his  money, 

For  the  rint  and  the  docther's  bill,  due  in  a  wake, 

An,  shure  there's  a  tear  on  yer  eyelashes  honey, 
I*  faith  I've  no  right  with  such  fradora  to  spake. 

I'm  over  much  thrifling,  I'll  not  give  ye  trouble, 
I'll  find  some  one  willin — oh  what  can  it  be? 

What's  that  in  the  newspaper  folded  up  double  ? 
Yer  honor,  dont  hide  it,  but  rade  it  to  me. 

Dead !  Patrick  O'Conner  I  oh  God  its  some  ither, 
Shot  dead  1  share  'tis  a  wake  scarce  gone  by, 

An  the  kiss  on  the  chake  of  his  sorrowin  mother, 
It  hasn't  had  time  yet  yer  honor  to  dhry. 

Dead  I  dead  I  0  God,  am  I  crazy  ? 

Shure  its  brakin  my  heart  ye  are  telling  me  so, 
An  what  en  the  world  will  I  do  wid  poor  Daisy  ? 

0  what  can  I  do  ?  where  can  I  go  ? 

This  room  is  so  dark — I'm  not  seein  yer  honor, 

1  think  I'll  go  home — And  a  sob  hard  and  dry, 
Rose  up  from  the  bosom  of  Mary  O'Conner, 

But  never  a  tear  drop  welled  up  to  her  eve. 

M.  A.  Denison. 


JtaatoamB  tn  Elocution-.  189 

From  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 

Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man, 
Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears; 

Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 
Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven; 

Summer,  with  flowers  that  full ; 
Remembrance  fallen  from  Heaven, 

And  madness  risen  from  hell ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite; 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years , 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea ; 

And  dust  of  the  laboring  earth; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after, 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  spau 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth, 

They  filled  his  body  with  life; 
Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  the* 


190  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

A  time  for  labor  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love  and  a  space  for  delight, 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days, 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire  ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaiKth  ; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision  ; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

Algernon  Chat.  Swinbum 


Darius  Green  and  his  Flying  Machine. 

If  ever  there  lived  a  Yankee  lad. 
Wise  or  otherwise,  good  or  bad, 
Who,  seeing  the  birds  fly,  did  n't  jump 
With  flapping  arms  from  stake  or  stump, 

Or  spreading  the  tail 

Of  his  coat  for  a  sail, 
Take  a  soaring  leap  from  post  or  rail, 

And  wonder  why 

He  could  n't  fly, 
And  flap  and  flutter  and  wish  and  try,  — 
If  ever  you  knew  a  country  dunce 
Who  did  n't  try  that  as  often  as  once, 
All  I  can  say  is,  that 's  a  sign 
He  never  would  do  for  a  hero  of  mine. 

An  aspiring  genius  was  D.  Green  : 
The  son  of  a  farmer,  —  age  fourteen ; 
His  body  was  long  and  lank  and  lean,  — 
Just  right  for  flying,  as  will  be  seen ; 


EXMMOOMa  IN  ELOChTION.  191 

He  had  two  eyes  as  bright  as  a  bean, 

And  a  freckled  nose  that  grew  between, 

A  little  awry,  —  for  I  must  mention 

That  he  had  riveted  his  attention 

Upon  his  wonderful  invention, 

Twisting  his  tongue  as  he  twisted  the  strings, 

And  working  his  face  as  he  worked  the  wings, 

And  with  every  turn  of  gimlet  and  screw 

Turning  ami  screwing  his  mouth  round  too, 

Till  his  nose  seemed  bent 

To  catch  the  scent, 
Around  some  corner,  of  new-baked  pies, 
And  his  wrinkled  cheeks  and  squinting  eyes 
Grew  puckered  into  a  queer  grimace, 
That  made  him  look  very  droll  in  the  face, 

And  also  very  wise. 

And  wise  he  must  have  been,  to  do  more 
Than  ever  a  genius  did  before, 
Excepting  Daedalus  of  yore, 
And  his  son  Icarus,  who  wore 

Upon  their  backs 

Those  wings  of  wax 
He  had  read  of  in  the  the  old  almanacks. 
Darius  was  clearly  of  the  opinion, 
That  the  air  is  also  man's  dominion, 
And  that,  with  paddle,  or  fin  or  pinion, 

We  soon  or  late 

Shall  navigate 
The  azure  as  now  we  sail  the  sea. 
The  thing  looks  simple  enough  to  me; 

And  if  you  doubt  it, 
Hear  how  Darius  reasoned  about  it 

"  The  birds  can  fly, 
An'  why  can't  I  ? 
Must  we  give  in," 


192  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Says  he  with  a  grin, 

44  That  the  bluebird  an'  phoebe 

Are  smarter  'nwebe? 
Jest  fold  our  hands  an'  see  the  swaller 
An*  blackbird  an'  catbird  beat  us  holler  ? 
Doos  the  little  chatterin',  sassy  wren, 
No  bigger  'n  my  thumb,  know  more  than  men  T 

Jest  show  me  that  ? 

Ur  prove 't  the  bat 
Hez  got  more  brains  than  's  in  my  hat, 
An'  I  '11  back  down,  an'  not  till  then  ?" 

He  argued  further:  "  Nor  I  can  t  see 
What  8  th*  use  o'  wings  to  a  bumble-bee, 
Fur  to  git  a  livin'  with,  more  'n  to  me;  — 

Ain't  my  business 

Important 's  his  'n  is  ? 

That  Icarus 

Made  a  perty  muss,  — 
Him  an'  his  daddy  Daedalus. 
They  might  V  knowed  wings  made  o'  wax 
Would  'nt  stand  sun-heat  an'  hard  whacks. 

I  '11  make  mine  o'  luther, 

Ur  8uthin'  ur  other." 

And  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  tinkered  and  planned : 
'         "  But  I  ain't  goin'  to  ehow  my  hand 
To  nummies  that  never  can  understand 
The  fust  idee  that 's  big  an'  grand." 
So  he  kept  his  secret  from  all  the  rest, 
Safely  buttoned  within  his  vest; 
^  And  in  the  loft  above  the  shed 

Himself  he  locks,  with  thimble  and  thread, 
And  wax  and  hammer  and  buckles  and  screws, 
And  all  such  things  as  geniuses  use ;  — 
Two  bats  for  patterns,  curious  fellows ! . 
A  charcoal-pot  and  a  pair  of  bellows ; 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  103 

Some  wire,  and  several  old  umbrellas; 

A  carriage-cover  for  tail  and  wings; 

A  piece  of  a  harness ;  and  straps  and  strings ; 

And  a  big  strong  box, 

In  which  he  locks 
These  and  a  hundred  other  things. 

His  grinning  brothers,  Reuben  and  Burke 

And  Nathan  and  Jotham  and  Solomon,  lurk 

Around  the  corner  to  see  him  work, — 

Sitting  cross-legged,  like  a  Turk, 

Drawing  the  waxed-end  through  with  a  jerk, 

And  boring  the  holes  with  a  comical  quirk 

Of  his  wise  old  head,  and  a  knowing  smirk. 

But  vainly  they  mounted  each  other's  backs, 

And  poked  through  knot-holes  and  pried  through  cracks, 

With  wood  from  the  pile  and  straw  from  the  stacks 

He  plugged  the  knot-holes  and  calked  the  cracks; 

And  a  dipper  of  water,  which  one  would  think 

He  had  brought  up  into  the  loft  to  drink 

When  he  chanced  to  be  dry, 

Stood  always  nigh, 

For  Darius  was  sly  I 
And  whenever  at  work  he  happened  to  spy 
At  chink  or  crevice  a  blinking  eye, 
He  let  the  dipper  of  water  fly. 

So  day  after  day 
He  stitched  and  tinkered  and  hammered  away, 

Till  at  last  t  was  done,  — 
The  greatest  invention  under  the  sun  ! 
1  An'  now,"  says  Darius,  "  hooray  fur  some  fun  I " 

'T  was  the  Fourth  of  July, 

And  •  i  dry, 

A.nd  not  a  cloud  was  on  all  the  sky, 
Bare  a  few  light  fleeces,  which  here  and  there, 


194  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Half  mist,  half  air, 
Like  foam  on  the  ocean  went  floating  by,  — 
Just  as  lovely  a  morning  as  ever  was  seen 
For  a  nice  little  trip  in  a  flying-machine. 

Thought  cunning  Darius :  "  Now  I  sha1  n't  go 
Along  'ith  the  fellers  to  see  the  show. 
I  '11  say  I  've  got  sich  a  terrible  cough  I 
An'  then,  when  the  folks  'ave  all  gone  offi 

I  Ml  have  full  swing 

Fur  to  try  the  thing, 
An'  practice  a  little  on  the  wing." 

"  Ain't  goin'  to  see  the  celebration  ?  " 
Says  brother  Nate.     "  No ;  botheration  ! 
I  've  got  sich  a  cold  —  a  toothache  —  I  — 
My  gracious  1  —  feel 's  though  I  should  fly  1 " 

SaidJctham,  "'Shot 

Guess  ye  better  go." 

But  Darius  said,  "  No  I 
Should  n't  wonder  'f  you  might  see  me,  though, 
'Long  'bout  noon,  ef  I  get  red 
0'  this  jumpin',  thumpin'  pain  'n  my  head." 
For  all  the  while  to  himself  he  said :  — 

"  I  tell  ye  what ! 
I  '11  fly  a  few  times  around  the  lot, 
To  see  how  't  seems,  tnen  soon  's  I  've  got 
The  hang  o'  the  thing,  ez  likely  's  not, 

I  '11  astonish  the  nation, 

An'  all  creation, 
By  fly  in'  over  the  celebration ! 
Over  their  heads  I  '11  sail  like  an  eagle ; 
I  '11  balance  myself  on  my  wings  like  a  sea-gull ; 
I  '11  dance  on  the  chimbleys ;  I  '11  stand  on  the  steeple 
I  '11  flop  up  to  winders  an'  scare  the  people  1 


urcises  ix  Elocution.  195 

I  '11  light  on  the  liberty-pole,*  an'  crow ; 
An'  I  '11  say  to  the  gawpin'  fools  below, 

1  What  world  's  this  'ere 

That  I  've  come  near  ? ' 
Fur  I  Ml  make  'em  b'lieve  I  'm  a  chap  f 'm  the  moon ; 
An  I  '11  try  a  race  'ith  their  ol'  balloon  I " 

He  crept  from  his  bed ; 
And  seeing  the  others  were  gone,  he  said, 
I  'm  gittin'  over  the  cold  'n  my  head." 

And  away  he  sped, 
To  open  the  wonderful  box  in  the  shed. 

His  brothers  had  walked  but  a  little  way, 

When  Jotham  to  Nathan  chanced  to  say, 

"  What  is  the  feller  up  to,  hey  ?  " 

"  Don'o',  — i  the 's  suthin'  ur  other  to  pay, 

Ur  he  would  n't  'a'  stayed  to  hum  to-day." 

Says  Burke,  "  His  toothache's  all  'n  his  eye ! 

He  never  'd  miss  a  Fo'th-o'-July, 

Ef  he  hed  n't  got  some  machine  to  try." 

Then  Sol,  the  little  one,  spoke  j 

"  Le  *8  hurry  back  an'  hide  'n  the  barn, 

An*  pay  him  fur  tellin'  us  that  yarn  !  " 

"  Agreed  1 "     Through  the  orchard  they  creep  back. 

Along  by  the  fences,  behind  the  stack, 

And  one  by  one,  through  a  hole  in  the  wall, 

In  under  the  dusty  barn  they  crawl, 

Droaacd  in  their  Sunday  garments  all ; 

And  a  very  astonishing  sight  was  that, 

When  each  in  his  cobwebbed  coat  and  hat 

Came  up  through  the  floor  like  an  ancient  rat 

And  there  they  hid  ; 

And  Reuben  slid 
The  fastenings  back,  and  the  door  undid. 

4'  Keep  dark  I  "  said  he, 
"  While  I  iquint  an'  see  what  the'  is  to  see.** 


190  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

As  knighU  of  old  put  on  their  mail, — 

From  head  to  foot 

An  iron  suit, 
Iron  jacket  and  iron  boot, 
Iron  breeches,  and  on  the  head 
No  hat,  but  an  iron  pot  instead, 

And  under  the  chin  the  bail, 
(I  believe  they  called  the  thing  a  helm,) 
Then  sallied  forth  to  overwhelm 
The  dragons  and  pagans  that  plagued  the  realm, — 

So  this  modern  knight, 

Prepared  for  flight, 
Put  on  his  wings  and  strapped  them  tight, — 
Jointed  and  jaunty,  strong  and  light, — 
Buckled  them  fast  to  shoulder  and  hip, — 
Ten  feet  they  measured  from  tip  to  tip  I 
And  a  helm  had  he,  but  that  he  wore, 
Not  on  his  head,  like  those  of  yore, 

But  more  like  the  helm  of  a  ship. 

"  Hush  I "  Reuben  said, 

"  He '8  up  in  the  shed! 
He  's  opened  the  winder,  —  I  see  his  head  1 

He  stretches  it  out, 

An'  pokes  it  about, 
Lookin'  to  see  'f  the  coast  is  clear, 

An'  nobody  near ;  — 
Guess  he  don'o'  who  's  hid  in  here  ! 
He  's  riggin'  a  spring-board  over  the  sill ! 
Stop  luffin',  Solomon  1    Burke,  keep  still ! 
He  's  a  climbin'  out  now —    Of  all  the  things  I 
What's  he  got  on  ?     I  van,  it 's  wings ! 
An'  that 't  other  thing ?     I  vum,  it's  a  tail ! 
An'  there  he  sets  like  a  hawk  on  a  rail  I 
Steppin'  careful,  he  travels  the  length 
Of  his  spring-board,  and  teeters  to  try  its  strength. 
Now  he  stretches  his  wings  like  a  monstrous  bat ; 


•UTION.  107 

over  his  shoulder,  this  way  an'  that, 
Fur  to  see  'f  the'  's  any  one  passin'  by ; 
But  the'  '8  on'y  a  ca'f  an'  a  goslin'  nigh. 
They  turn  up  at  him  a  wonderin'  eye, 
To  see  —    The  dragon  I  he 's  goin'  to  fly  I 
Away  he  goes  I     Jimminy  I  what  a  jumpl 

Flop  —  flop  —  an*  plump 

To  the  ground  with  a  thump  ! 
Flutfrin'  an'  flound'rin',  all  *n  a  lump  !  " 

As  a  demon  is  burled  by  an  angel's  spear 
Heels  over  head,  to  his  proper  sphere,  — 

over  head,  and  head  over  heels, 
Dizzily  down  the  abyss  he  wheels, — 
So  fell  Darius.     Upon  his  crown, 
In  the  midst  of  the  barn-yard,  he  came  down, 
In  a  wonderful  whirl  of  tangled  strings, 
Broken  braces  and  broken  springs, 
Broken  tail  and  broken  wings, 
Shooting-stars,  and  various  things,  — 
Barn-yard  litter  of  straw  and  chaff, 
And  much  that  was  n't  so  nice  by  half. 

Away  with  a  bellow  fled  the  calfj 

And  what  was  that  ?    Did  the  gosling  laugh  ? 

'T  is  a  merry  roar 

From  the  old  barn-door, 
And  he  hears  the  voice  of  Jotham  crying, 
"  Say,  D'nus  1  how  do  you  like  flyin'  ?  " 

Slowly,  ruefully,  where  he  lay, 

Darius  just  turned  and  looked  that  way, 

As  he  stanched  his  sorrowful  nose  with  his  cuff. 

"  Wal,  I  like  flyin'  well  enough," 

He  said  ;  "  but  the'  ain't  sich  a  awful  sight 

Q  fun  in  't  when  ye  come  to  light " 


l©8  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

MORAL. 

I  just  have  room  for  the  moral  here : 

And  this  is  the  moral,  —  Stick  to  your  sphere. 

Or  if  you  insist,  as  you  have  the  right, 

On  spreading  your  wings  for  a  loftier  flight, 

The  moral  is,  —  Take  cart  how  you  light. 

J  T.  TrcwbrUUn 


No  Sect  in  Heaven. 
Talking  of  sects  till  late  one  eve, 
Of  the  various  doctrines  the  saints  believe, 
That  night  I  stood  in  a  troubled  dream, 
By  the  side  of  a  darkly-flowing  stream. 

And  a  "Churchman"  down  to  the  river  came, 
When  I  heard  a  strange  voice  call  his  name, 
"Good  father,  stop;  when  you  cross  this  lide, 
You  must  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side." 

But  the  aged  father  did  not  mind, 
And  his  long  gown  floated  out  behind, 
As  down  to  the  stream  his  way  he  took, 
His  pale  hands  clasping  a  gilt-edged  book. 

"I'm  bound  for  Heaven,  and  when  I'm  there 
I  shall  want  my  book  of  Common  Prayer; 
And  though  I  put  on  a  starry  crown, 
I  should  feel  quite  lost  without  my  gown." 

Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  shining  track, 
But  his  gown  was  heavy,  and  held  him  back ; 
And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain, 
A  single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I  saw  him  again  on  the  other  side, 
But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide  ; 
And  no  one  asked  in  that  blissful  spot, 
Whether  he  belonged  to  "  the  Church  "  or  not. 


KXBRCISES  IN  J^LOCVnOJf.  10 

When  down  to  the  river  a  Quaker  strayed, 
His  dress  of  a  sober  hue  was  made; 
"  My  coat  and  hat  must  be  all  gray, 
I  cannot  go  any  other  way." 

Then  he  buttoned  his  coat  straight  up  to  his  chin, 
And  staidly,  solemnly,  waded  in, 
And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  he  pulled  down  tight 
Over  his  forehead,  so  cold  and  white. 

But  a  strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat ; 
A  moment  he  silently  sighed  over  that, 
And  then,  as  he  gazed  on  the  farther  shore, 
The  coat,  slipped  off,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

As  he  entered  Heaven,  his  suit  of  gray 
Went  quietly  sailing  away,  away, 
And  none  of  the  angels  questioned  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver's  brim. 

Next  came  Dr.  Watts  with  a  bundle  of  Psalms, 

Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms, 

And  hymns  as  many,  a  very  wise  thing, 

That  the  people  in  Heaven,  "  all  rouud,"  might  sing. 

Bit  I  thought  that  he  heaved  an  anxious  sigh, 
As  he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and  high, 
And  looked  rather  surprised  as,  one  by  one 
The  Psalms  and  Hymns  in  the  wave  went  down. 

And  after  him  with  his  MSS., 

Came  Wesley,  the  pattern  of  godliness; 

But  he  cried,  M  Dear  m--,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

The  water  has  soaked  them  through  and  through.*' 

And  there  on  the  river,  far  and  wide, 
Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide, 
And  the  saint  Ml  Msed  through  alone, 

.1  his  manuscripts  Dp  to  thu  throne. 

9* 


200  Exercises  rr  Elocjtion. 

Then  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name, 
Down  to  the  stream  together  came ; 
But  as  they  stopped  at  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

1  Sprinkled  or  plunged,  may  I  ask  you,  friend, 

How  you  attained  to  life's  great  end  ?" 

"  Thus,  with  a  few  drops  on  my  brow," 

"  But  /  have  been  dipped,  as  you'll  see  me  now 

"And  I  really  think  it  will  hardly  do, 
As  I'm  'close  communion,'  to  cross  with  you; 
You're  bound,  I  know,  to  the  realms  of  bllsn, 
But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I'll  go  this." 

Then  straightway  plunging  with  all  his  might, 
Away  to  the  left  —  his  friend  at  the  right, 
Apart  tbej  wont  from  this  world  of  sin, 
But  at  last  together  they  entered  in. 

And,  now,  when  the  river  is  rolling  on, 

A  Presbyterian  Church  went  down  ; 

Of  women  there  seemed  an  innumerable  throng, 

But  the  men  I  could  count  as  they  passed  along 

And  concerning  the  road,  they  could  never  agree, 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  which  it  could  be, 
Nor  even  a  moment  paused  to  think 
That  botli  would  lead  to  the  river's  brink. 

And  a  sound  of  murmuring  long  and  loud 
Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd, 
"You're  in  the  old  way,  and  I'm  in  the  new 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true ;" 
Or,  "I'm  in  the  old  way,  and  you're  in  the  new, 
That  is  the  false,  and  this  is  the  true." 

But  the  brethren  only  seemed  to  speak, 
Modest  the  sisters  walked,  and  meek, 
And  if  ever  one  of  them  chauced  to  say 


/■:.xi:i;cises  in  Elocution.  20/ 

What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 
How  she  longed  to  pass  to  the  other  side, 
>s  over  the  swelling  tide, 
A  voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then : 

;ik  but  the  '  holy  men  ; ' 
ive  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 
40  let  the  women  keep  silence  all?'" 

I  watched  thorn  long  in  my  curious  dream, 
Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream, 
Then,  just  as  I  thought,  the  two  ways  met, 
But  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet, 
And  would  talk  on,  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side; 
Side  by  side,  for  the  way  was  one, 

toilsome  journey  of  life  was  done, 
And  all  who  in  Christ  the  Saviour  died 
Come  out  alike  on  the  other  side; 
No  forms,  or  crosses,  or  books  had  they, 
No  gowns  of  silk,  or  suits  of  l: 
No  creeds  to  guide  them,  or  MSS., 
For  all  had  [tut  on  Christ's  righteous;. 

Mrs.  Cleveland. 


Poetry. 

.  in  n  twofold  view,  a*  n  spirit  and  a  manifestat  M.     Perhaps 
•  i    been  more  justly  defined,  than  by  Byron  in  his 
-a  creation 

><I  or  ill.  an  aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  late." 
-;drit  may  be  manifested  by  language,  metrical  or  prose.  I  /  declamation, 
rounds,  by  expression,  by  gesture,  by  motion,  and  by  i  hitatlns  forms, 
-  ;  co  that  literature,  oratory,  music,  physiognomy,  acting,  and 

.  l>nt  thai  peculiar 
rm  to  all  the  effort! 
ileal  composition,  as  from  the 
live. 

The  world  is  lull  of  poetry  ;  —  the  air 

ring  with  its  spirit;  and  the  w:r 
Danee  to  I  of  its  mel< 

,'e  in  its  brightness.     Earth  is  \ 
And  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls 

Tha  in, 


201  x  nf  Elocution. 

At.   eloquent  with  voices,  that  proclaim 

Ties  of  in 
In  harmonics,  too  perfect,  and  too  high, 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mouM, 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn, 
Unfading  beauty,  and  unyielding  power. 

The  year  leads  round  the  seasons,  in  a  choir 
ever  charming,  and  for  ever  new, 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart,  like  sounds  that  rise 

IT,  in  moonlight  evenings,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  ocean  resting  after  storms ; 
Or  tones  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skillful,  and  moved  with  passionate  love  of  art, 
Plays  o'er  the  highl  iod  bears  aloft 

The  peals  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
By  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt,  and  dissolved  in  ecstasy,  to  Heaven. 

'T  is  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words,  that  move 
In  measured  file,  and  metrical  array ; 
T  is  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds, 
Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme, 
And  quantity,  and  accent,  that  can  give 
This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear, 
Or  blend  it  with  the  movings  of  the  soul 
'T  is  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 
Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 
Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipped  in  sweetness,  till 
He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 
With  all  existences,  in  earth  and  Heaven, 
That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 


Sxmbcomm  in  Elocution,  203 

T  w  not  the  noisy  babbler,  who  displays, 
In  Studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet, 
And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 
Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments 
That  overload  their  littleness.     Its  words 

iWj  bat  deep  and  solemn  ;  and  they  break 

from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  lull 
Of  all  that  passion,  which,  on  Carmel,  fired 
The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals, 
His  language  winged  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 
Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest)  Mined  with  wrath, 
Commissioned  to  affright  us  and  destroy. 

Well  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days, 
How  deep  the  feeling  when  my  eye  looked  forth 
On  Nature,  in  her  loveliness,  and  storms, 
llow  my  heart  gladdened,  M  the  light  of  spring 
Came  from  the  sun,  with  zephyrs,  and  with  showers. 
Waking  the  earth  to  beauty,  and  the  woods 
To  music,  and  the  atmosphere  to  blow, 

Dd  calmly,  with  its  breath  of  balm. 
0,  how  I  gazed  upon  the  dazzling  blue 
Of  summer's  Heaven  of  glory,  and  the  ere 
That  rolled,  in  lending  gold,  o'er  hill  and  plain; 
And  <»n  the  tempest,  when  it  issued  forth, 
In  folds  of  blackness,  from  the  northern  sky, 
And  stood  above  the  mountains,  silent,  dark, 

,'ng,  and  terrible;   then  sent  abroad 
The  lightni  i,  and  the  | 

That  rolled  in  n  volleys,  round  the  hills, 

The  warning  of  its  coming,  and  the  sound 
That  ushered  in  its  el  irarl 

And,  oh  1   I  stood,  in  breathless  longing  fixed, 
Trembling,  and  yet  not  fearful,  as  the  clouds 
Heaved  their  dark  billows  on  the 

sent,  fiom  mountain  top,  and  hitidii..  d. 

A  long  hoa  rash  of  ere 

That  bent,  in  foam  end  fury,  on  the  >hore. 


Ml  A '.v  i ■  1 7 i /  v  /jv  Elocution. 

Nor  less  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  when  high 
Rose  the  blue  arch  of  autumn,  cloudless,  pure 
As  Nature,  at  her  dawning;  when  she  sprang 
Fresh  from  the  hand  that  wrought  her;  where  the  eye 
Caught  I  k  upon  the  soft  serene, 

To  keep  eerulean,  but  the  cloud, 

That  floated,  like  a  lonely  spirit,  tl 
White  as  the  snow  of  Zemla,  or  the  foam 
That  on  the  mid-sea  tosses,  cinctured  round, 
In  easy  undulations,  with  a  1 

'■  gulden  hair. 
Nor,  when  thai  aroh,  in  winter's  deareei  night, 

atled  in  ebon  dsrkneas,  strewed  with  stars 

UM'pv.  tin  |  to  swell,  and  swell 

The  higher,  as  I  gazed  upon  it,  till, 
Sphere  at:  .  on  the  height 

Of  heaven,  the  everlasting  throne  shone  through, 
In  'jlorv's  full  effnl  I  a  wave, 

Intensely  bright,  lotted,  like  a  fountain,  forth 
I  Mai,  Mid  streamed 
Down  the  long  galaxy,  a  flood  of  snow, 
Bathing  the  heavens  in  light,  the  spring  that  gushed. 

In  overflow.:  M,  from  fcht 

Of  all-maternal  nature.    These  I  saw, 

And  felt  to  madness;  but  my  full  heart  gave 

No  utterance  to  the  ineffable  within. 

W       Is  were  too  weak ;   ti  unknown,  but  still 

The  feeling  was  most  poignant:   it  has  gone, 

And  all  the  deepest  flow  of  sounds,  that  e'er 

Poured,  in  a  torrent  fullness,  from  the  tongue 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  ancient  bards,  and  stored 

With  all  the  patriarchs  of  British  song 

Hallowed  and  rendered  glorious,  cannot  tell 

Those  feelings,  which  have  died,  to  live  no  more. 

PereivaL 


K\  U9  Elocution.  205 

Wool  Gathering  and  Mouse  Hunting, 
Here  we  stop  for  the  night     You  are  shown  into  a  room  that 
pened  .-inc.  ant  left  it,  and  is  unsavory  and 

unti«ly  to  the   last    degu-e.     An   appeal    to   the   gentlemanly  clerk 
secures  a  change  for  the  better;  but  there  is  a  hole  by  th- 
in Number  Two  that  looks  suspicious.     You   cross-examine   the 
porter,  who  assures  you  that  it  has  no  significance  whatever.     A 
mouse  in  that  room  is  an  event  of  which  history  gives  no  record 
•  m  take  the  precaution  to  stuff  the  hole  with  an  ol 
New  York  I  [trail,  and  are  awakened  at  midnight  by  the  dreadful 
rustling  of  paper.     A  dreadful  gnawing  succeeds  the  dreadful  rust- 
ling, and  away  goes  a  boot  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.     There  is 
a  pause  broken  only  by  heart  throbs  1     Then  another  gnawing,  fol- 
d  by  a  boot  till  the  supply  is  exhausted.     Then  you  begin  on 
the   pillows.     A   longer  pause  gives  rise  to  the  hope  that  order  is 
about  to  reign  in  Warsaw,  and  you  are  just  falling  asleep  again, 
when  a  smart  scratching  close  to  your  ear,  shoots  you  to  tin-  other 
:n  with  the  conviction  that  the  mouse  is  running  up 
of  the  curtain  at  the  head  of  your  bed.     In  a  frenzy  you 
ring  violently,  and  ask  through  the  door  for  a  chambermaid. 

"  Can't  have  no  chambermaid  this  time  o'  night,"  drawls  the 
porter  sleepily. 

"Then  send  up  a  mouse-trap." 
"  Aint  no  mouse-trap  in  the  house." 
"  Then  bring  a  cat  I  " 

"  Dunno  nothin'  about  it,"  and  he  scuffs  his  slippered  feet  down 
the  long  gallery,  growling  audibly,  poor  fellow,  half  suspecting 
evidently  that  he  is  the  victim  of  a  joke;  but  alas!  it  is  no  joke. 

try  on  the  foot  of  the  bed,  faring  the  ninny.     He 

:rom  the  curtain,  runs  up  and  down  the  slats  of  the  blind 

in  in  the  window  iingerery  now 

and  then  into  obscurity;  and  this  is  the  worst  of  all.     When  you 

see  him  he  is  in  one  place,  but  when  you  do  not  see  him  he 

>  it  umbrella,  and  from  time  to  time  n 

;>  him  on'  immediate 

vicinity,  and  so  the  night  wears  wearily  away.     Your  refreshing 
sleep  turns  into  a  campaign  against  a  m 

-v  in  the  u ioini tig  three  dollar  ;iMli  !t  half; 


206  Bxmrcomb  in  Elocution. 

the  gentlemanly  clerk,  with  a  pitying  smile,  informs  you,  '0,  we 
cannot  help  that!     There  are  mice  all  over  the  house!  " 

Moral  reflection:  If  ever  the  education  of  a  soaring  human  boy 
be  intrusted  to  my  care,  I  will  endeavor  to  model  his  manners  on 
those  of  a  clerk  in  a  hotel.  Per  conscious  superiority,  tempered 
with  benevolenco  and  swathed  in  suavity;  for  perfect  self-posses- 
sion; for  high-b:  tension  to  the  ignorance  and  toleration 
of  the  weakness  of  others;  for  absolute  equality  to  circumstances, 
aid  a  certain  grace,  assurance,  and  flourish  of  bearing,  —  give  me  a 
Jerk  in  a  hoteL  We  may  see  generals,  poets  and  philosophers, 
indistinguishable  from  the  common  herd;  but  a  true  hotel  clerk 
wears  on  his  beauteous  brow,  and  in  his  noble  mien,  the  indubitable 
sign  of  greatness. 

From  Albany  to  Niagara  is  a  pleasant  daye  journey,  and  the 
Niagara  mice  are  not  quite  so  large,  nor  quite  so  lively,  as  those  of 
Eastern  New  Yorkv  They  do  not  appear  till  the  second  day. 
Then,  resting  quietly  after  a  walk,  you  see  a  mouse  creep  timidly 
from  under  the  bureau.  You  improvise  a  sort  of  pontoon  bridge  to 
the  bell,  out  of  your  chairs  and  tables,  and,  as  it  is  day-time,  secure 
a  chambermaid  and  superintend  a  mouse  hunt  She  whisks  about 
the  room  enthusiastically,  peers  under  all  the  furniture,  assuring  you 
the  while  that  it  is  four  years  now  she  has  been  in  the  house  and 
never  saw  a  mouse  in  the  chambers,  though  she  confesses  to  having 
seen  them  in  the  kitchen,  and,  being  hard  pressed,  well,  she  has 
seen  them  in  the  passages;  but  in  the  chambers,  no  I  never'  and 
you  are  led  to  believe  that,  though  a  mouse  might  stand  shivering 
on  the  brink  of  your  room,  he  would  fear  to  step  foot  over  the 
threshold.     No,  there  is  no  mouse  here,  not  a  sign  of  a  mouse. 

"No  sign  of  a  mouse,  except  the  mouse  itself,"  you  suggest 

"Ah!  but  you  must  have  been  mistaken.  It  was  a  shadow. 
Why"  (with  a  grand  flourish  of  the  valance  with  her  right  hand, 
and  in  the  air  with  her  left),  "you  can  see  for  yourself  there  is  no 
mouse  here,"  —  and  she  thinks  she  has  made  her  point 

You  look  at  her,  debating  within  yourself  whether  it  is  worth 
while  to  attempt  to  acquaint  her  with  the  true  province  of  nega- 
tives, the  proper  disposition  of  the  burden  of  proof,  and  the  sophis- 
try of  an  undue  assumption  of  the  major  premise,  and  decide  that  it 
is  not 


Ex  ix  Elocution.  207 

Moral  and  philological  reflection :  We  see  now  the  reason  why 
trunks  and  traveling-bag:*  are  called  traps.  Synecdoche:  Because 
the  mouse-traps  are  the  most  important  part  of  your  luggage. 

Oail  Hamilton. 


A  Legend  of  Bregena 
Girt  round  with  rugged  mountains, 

The  fair  Lake  Constance  lies; 
In  her  blue  heart  reflected 

Shine  back  the  starry  skies; 
And,  watching  each  white  cloudlet 

Float  silently  and  slow, 
You  think  a  piece  of  Heaven 

Lies  on  our  earth  below  1 

Midnight  is  there:  and  Silence, 

Enthroned  in  Heaven,  looks  down 
Upon  her  own  calm  mirror, 

Upon  a  sleeping  town  : 
For  Bregenz,  that  quaint  city 

Upon  the  Tyrol  shore, 
Has  stood  above  Lake  Constance 

A  thousand  years  and  more. 

Her  battlements  and  towers, 

From  off  their  rocky  strep, 
Have  cast  their  trembling  shadow 

For  ages  on  the  deep : 
Mountain,  and  lake,  and  valley, 

A  sacred  legend  know, 
Of  how  the  town  was  saved,  one  night, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Far  from  her  home  and  kindred, 

A  Tyrol  maid  had  : 
To  serve  in  the  BwiM  valleys, 

And  toil  for  daily  bread ; 
And  every  year  that  fleeted 

So  silently  and  fast, 
Seemed  to  bear  farther  from  her 

The  memory  of  the  Past 


208  BxmmcumM  or  Elocution. 

She  served  kind,  gentle  masters, 

Nor  asked  for  rest  or  change ; 
Her  friends  seemed  no  more  new  ones, 

Their  speech  seemed  no  more  strange; 
And  when  she  led  her  cattle 

To  pasture  every  day, 
She  ceased  to  look  and  wonder 

On  which  side  Bregenz  lay. 

She  spoke  no  more  of  Bregenz, 

With  longing  and  with  tears; 
Her  Tyrol  home  seemed  faded 

In  a  deep  mist  of  years ; 
She  heeded  not  the  rumors 

Of  Austrian  war  and  strife; 
Each  day  she  rose  conu 

To  the  calm  toils  of  life. 

Yet,  when  her  master's  children 

Would  clustering  round  her  stand, 
She  sang  them  ancient  ballads 

Of  her  own  native  land  ; 
And  when  at  morn  and  evening 

She  knelt  before  God's  throne, 
The  accents  of  her  childhood 

Rose  to  her  lips  alone. 

And  so  she  dwelt:  the  valley 

More  peaceful  year  by  year; 
When  suddenly  strange  portents 

Of  some  great  deed  seemed  near. 
The  golden  corn  was  bending 

Upon  its  fragile  stalk, 
While  farmers,  heedless  of  their  fields, 

Paced  up  and  dowru  in  talk. 

,     The  men  seemed  stern  and  altered,  — 
With  looks  cast  on  the  ground; 
With  anxious  faces,  one  by  one, 
The  women  gathered  round ; 


rf\!!;,-fSKS    IX  ELOCUTION, 

All  talk  of  flax,  or  spinning, 

Or  work,  was  put  away ; 
The  very  children  seemed  afraid 

To  go  alone  to  play. 

One  day,  out  in  the  meadow 

With  strangers  from  the  town, 
Some  secret  plan  discussing, 

The  men  walked  up  and  down. 
Yet  now  and  then  seemed  watchir^ 

A  strange  uncertain  gleam, 
That  looked  like  lances  'mid  the  treea 

That  stood  below  the  stream. 

At  eve  they  all  assembled, 

Then  care  and  doubt  were  fled ; 
With  jovial  laugh  they  feasted; 

The  board  was  nobly  spread. 
The  elder  of  the  village 

Rose  up,  his  glass  in  hand, 
And  cried,  "  We  drink  the  downfall 

Of  an  accursed  land  1 

"The  night  is  growing  darker, 

Ere  one  more  day  is  flown, 
Bregenz,  our  foemens'  stronghold, 

Bregenz  shall  be  our  own  I  " 
women  shrank  in  terror 

(Yet  Pride,  too,  had  her  part), 
But  one  poor  Tyrol  maiden 

Pelt  death  within  her  heart 

Before  her  stood  fair  Bregenz; 

Once  more  her  towers  arose; 
What  were  the  friends  beside  her  f 

Only  her  oouni 
The  faces  of  her  kinsfolk, 

The  days  of  childhood  flown, 
The  echoes  of  her  mount;. 

Reclaimed  her  as  their  own. 


10  Exercises  in  Elocution.. 

Nothing  she  heard  around  her 

(Though  shouts  rang  forth  again), 
Gone  were  the  green  Swiss  valleys, 

The  pasture,  and  the  plain ; 
Before  her  eyes  one  vision, 

And  in  her  heart  one  cry, 
That  said,  "Go  forth,  save  Bregenz, 

And  then,  if  need  be,  die! " 

With  trembling  haste  and  breathless, 

With  noiseless  step,  she  sped; 
Horses  and  weary  cattle 

Were  standing  in  the  shed ; 
She  loosed  the  strong,  white  charger, 

That  fed  from  out  her  hand, 
She  mounted,  and  she  turned  his  head 

Toward  her  native  land. 

Out  —  out  into  the  darkness  — 

Faster,  and  still  more  fast; 
The  smooth  grass  flies  behind  her, 

The  chestnut  wood  is  past; 
She  looks  up ;  clouds  are  heavy ; 

Why  is  her  steed  so  slew?  — 
Scarcely  the  wind  beside  them 

Can  pass  them  as  they  go. 

u  Faster !  "  she  cries,  "  0  faster !  " 

Eleven  the  church-bells  chime: 
"  0  God,"  she  cries,  "  help  Bregens, 

And  bring  me  there  in  time  I" 
But  louder  than  bells'  ringing, 

Or  lowing  of  the  kine, 
Grows  nearer  in  the  midnight 

The  rushing  of  the  Rhine. 

Shall  not  the  roaring  waters 
Their  headlong  gallop  check  ? 

The  steed  draws  back  in  terror,— 
She  leans  upon  his  neck 


Si  in  Elocutioit.  211 

To  watch  the  flowing  darkness; 

The  bank  is  high  and  steep; 
One  pause  —  he  staggers  forward. 

And  plunges  in  the  deep. 

She  strives  to  pierce  the  blackness, 

And  looser  throws  the  rein  ; 
Her  steed  must  breast  the  waters 

That  dash  above  his  mane. 
How  gallantly,  how  nobly, 

He  struggles  through  the  foam, 
And  see  —  in  the  far  distance 

Shine  out  the  lights  of  home  I 

Up  the  steep  bank  he  bears  ber, 

And  now,  they  rush  again 
Towards  the  heights  of  Bregens, 

That  tower  above  the  plain. 
They  reach  the  gate  of  Bregens 

Just  as  the  midnight  rings, 
And  out  come  serf  and  soldier 

To  meet  the  news  she  brings. 

Bregenz  is  saved  1     Ere  daylight 

Her  battlements  are  manned; 
Defiance  greets  the  army 

That  marches  on  the  land. 
And  if  to  deeds  heroic 

Should  endless  fame  be  paid, 
Bregenz  does  well  to  honor 

The  noble  Tyrol  maid. 

Three  hundred  years  are  vanished, 

And  yet  upon  the  hill 
An  old  stone  gateway  rises, 

To  do  her  honor  still. 
And  there,  when  Bregenz  women 

Sit  spinning  in  the  shade, 
They  see  in  quaint  old  carving 

The  Charger  and  the  Maid. 


212  //a  i  or  M LOCUTION. 

And  when,  to  guard  old  Bregenz, 

By  gateway,  street  and  tower, 
The  warder  paces  all  night  long 

And  calls  each  passing  hour; 
"Nine,"  "ten,"  "eleven,"  he  cries  aloud, 

And  then  (0  crown  of  Fame  1) 
When  midnight  pauses  in  the  skies, 

lie  calls  the  maiden's  name  I 

Adelaide  PtocUr 


The  Grandmother's  Apology. 
Willy,  my  eldest  born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Annie? 
id  white,  and  strong  on  hi  •  looks  like  a  man. 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written :  she  never  was  overwise, 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy :  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 

AnDie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save ; 
t  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
•y  enough,  very  pretty  I  but  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
Eh  I — but  he  wouldn't  hear  me  —  and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie?  you  think  I  am  hard  and  cold; 

But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old: 

I  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  n 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear, 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandfather,  Annie :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a  day ; 
And  all  things  look'd  half-dead,  tho'  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  1 
I>ut  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  oneself  clean. 

And  I  cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 

climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate 
The  moon  like  a  rick  on  tire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 
And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me,  chirrupt  the  night- 
ingale. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  213 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopt:  there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 

—  he  didn't  see  me,  —  and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  searce  knew  how  ; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one  —  it  makes  me  angry  now. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part:  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the  same. 
Y'ou  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine : 
"  Sweetheart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand :  we  two  shall  be  happy  still." 

'  Marry  you,  Willy !  "  said  I,  M  but  I  needs  must  speak  my  mind, 
I  fear  you  will  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind." 
But  he  turn'd  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer' d,   "No, 

love,  no ;  " 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

Ily  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown  ; 
And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a  crown. 

jealous  —  not  he:  we  had  many  a  happy  year; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep  —  my  own  time  seem'd  so  near. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have 

died: 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 
that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget: 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they're  all  about  me  yet. 

bg  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 
•■  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you: 
ing  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hilL 

Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too  —  they  sing  to  their  team; 
to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of  a  d: 

.  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed  — 
I  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 


214  Kxercises  in  Elocution. 

And  yet  [  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty- five, 
And  Willy,  my  eldest  born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly  men. 

So  Willy  has  gone,  my  btMlltj,  my  eldest-bom,  my  flower; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour, — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 
I  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be  vext? 

And  Willy '8  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  overwise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie :  thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  past  away. 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 

Tennyson, 


What  is  Glory?    What  is  Fame? 
What  is  Glory?  What  is  Fame? 
The  echo  of  a  long-lost  name ; 
A  breath,  an  idle  hour's  brief  talk; 
The  shadow  of  an  arrant  naught ; 
A  flower  that  blossoms  for  a  day, 

Dying  next  morrow ; 
A  stream  that  hurries  on  its  way, 

Singing  of  sorrow ; 
The  last  drop  of  a  bootless  shower, 
Shed  on  a  sere  and  leafless  bower ; 
A  rose,  stuck  in  a  dead  man's  breast  — 
This  is  the  World's  fame  at  the  best  I 

What  is  Fame?  and  what  is  Glory? 
A  dream, —  a  jester's  lying  story, 
To  tickle  fools  withal,  or  be 
A  theme  for  second  infancy; 
A  joke  scrawled  on  an  epitaph ; 
A  grin  at  Death's  own  ghastly  laugh ; 
A  visioning  that  tempts  the  eye, 
But  mocks  the  touch  —  nonentity ; 


fij  IT  I  ON.  215 

A  rainbow,  substanceless  as  bright, 

Flitting  forever 
OVr  hill-top  to  more  distant  height, 

Hearing  us  never; 
A  bubble  blown  by  fond  conceit, 
In  very  sooth  itself  to  cheat; 
The  witch-fire  of  a  frenzied  brain  , 
A  fortune  that  to  lose  were  gain ; 
A  word  of  praise,  perchance  of  blame  ; 
The  wreck  of  a  time-bandied  name,— 
Av,  this  is  Glory  1  —  this  is  Fame  I 

Mother  wtlU 


The  Progress  of  Poesy. 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 

To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  od'rous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat, 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet, 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 

tok,  where'er  the  godless  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  gen'rous  Shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  freedom's  holy  rlame. 

Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 

,  that  crown  th'  MgpKQ  deep, 
Fields,  that  cool  Ilissus  la 
Or  where  Mceander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  lab'rinths  < 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  I 
each  ohl  poetic  mountain 
ration  breathed  around; 
.  shade  and  hallow'd  fountain 
Murmur'd  deep  a  solemn  s  un.l: 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour, 
Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
l.i 


316  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  0  Albion  1  next  thy  sea-encircled  coast 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale, 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face:  the  dauntless  child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arras  and  smiled. 
"  This  pencil  take  (she  said),  whose  colors  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year : 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy  1 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy ; 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears." 

Nor  second  He,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  ecstasy, 
The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time : 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night 
Behold,  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding  paoe 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore  1 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hov'ring  o'er, 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 
But  ah!  'tis  heard  no  more 

0  lyre  divine !  what  daring  spirit 

Wakes  thee  now?     Though  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear, 


RXBM cises  in  El ocution.  2 1 7 

Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 
Through  the  azure  deep  of  air: 

ft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 
Such  forma  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray, 
With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun: 

shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far,  — but  far  above  the  Great. 

Gray. 


Prom  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea, 
I. 

THE    COMBAT. 

liilliatt  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  Great  Douvre. 

Kn.rn  hence  he  could  see  around  the  horizon. 

The  western  side  was  appalling.     A  wall  of  cloud  spread  across 
it,   barring  the  wide  expanse  from  side    to   side,   and    ascending 
slowly  from  the  horizon  towards  the  zenith.     This  wall,  straight- 
I,    vertical,   without  a  crevice    in    its   height,  without  a  rent 
in    its  structure,  seemed   built  by  the  square,  and   measured  by 
the   plumb-line.      It   was   cloud   in   the  likeness  of  granite.     Its 
escarpment,  completely  perpendicular  at  the  southern  extremity, 
curved  a  little  towards  the  north,  like  a  bent  sheet  of  iron,  pre- 
rig  the  steep,   slippery  face  of  an  inclined  plane.     The   dark 
wall   enlarged   and   grew;   but   its   entablature   never  ceased   for 
a  moment  to  be  parallel  with   the  horizon   line,  which  was  almost 
tinguishable  in   the   gathering  darkness.     Silently,  and  alto- 
gether, the  airy  battlements  ascended.     No  undulation,  no  wrinkle, 
no  projection  changed  its  shape  or  moved  its  place.     The  aspect  of 
this  immobility  in  movement  was  impressive.     The  sun,  pale  in  the 

It  of  a  strange,  sickly  transparence,  lighted  op  this  outlii 
the  Apocalypse.     Already  the  cloudy  bank  had  blotted  out 
half  the  space  of  the  sky,  shelving  like  the  fearful  tatua  of  the 
abyss.     It  was  the  uprising  of  a  dark  mountain  between  earth  and 
en. 

It  was  night  falling  suddenly  upon  midday. 

There  was  a  heat  in  the  air  as  from  an  ovendoor,  coming  from 
that  mysterious  mass  on  mass.     The  sky,  which  from  blue  nad  be- 


218  ExMMommM  Tx  Elocution. 

come  white,  was  now  turning  from  white  to  a  slaty  gray.     The  sea 
beneath,  leaden-hued  and  dull     No  breath,  no  wave,  no 
Far  as  eye  could  reach,  the  desert  ocean.     No  sail  was  visible  on 
any  side.     The  birds  had  disappeared.     Some  monstrous  treason 
1  abroad. 

The  wall  of  cloud  grew  visibly  larger. 

This  moving  mountain  of  vapors,  which  was  approaching  the 
Douvres,  was  one  of  those  which  might  be  called  the  clouds  of 
battle  Sinister  appearances;  some  strange,  furtive  glance  seemed 
cast  upon  the  beholder  through  that  obscure  mass  up-pilei. 

The  approach  was  terrible. 

Gilliatt  obser\  ed  it  closely,  and  muttered  to  himself  M I  am 
thristy  enough,  but  you  will  give  me  plenty  to  drink." 

He  stood  there  motionless  a  few  moments,  his  eye  fixed  upon 
the  cloud-bank,  as  if  mentally  taking  a  sounding  of  the  temj 

tjahrienne  was  in  the  pocket  of  his  jacket;  he  took  it  out 
and  placed  it  on  his  head.  Then  he  fetched  from  the  cave,  which 
had  so  long  served  him  for  a  sleeping-place,  a  few  things  which  he 
had  kept  there  in  reserve;  he  put  c  alls,  and  attired  him- 

self in  his  water-proof  overcoat,  like  a  knight  who  puts  on  his 
armour  at  the  moment  of  batti  .1  no  shoes,  but  his  naked 

feet  had  become  hardened  to  the  rocks. 

This  preparation  for  the  storm  being  completed,  he  looked  down 
upon  his  br  grasped  the  knotted  cord  hurriedly,  descended 

from  the  plateau  of  the  Douvre,  stepped  on  to  the  rocks  below, 
and  hastened  to  his  store  cavern.  A  few  moments  later  he  was  at 
work.  The  vast  silent  cloud  might  have  heard  the  strokes  of  his 
hammer.  With  the  nails,  ropes,  and  beams  which  still  remained, 
he  constructed  for  the  eastern  gullet  a  second  frame,  which  he  suc- 
ceeded in  fixing  at  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  other. 

The  silence  was  still  profound.  The  blades  of  grass  between  the 
cracks  of  the  .ocks  were  not  stirred. 

The  sun  disappeared  suddenly.     Gilliatt  looked  up. 

The  rising  cloud  had  just  reached  it  It  was  like  the  blotting 
out  of  day,  succeeded  by  a  mingled  pale  reflection. 

The  immense  wall  of  cloud  had  changed  its  appearance.  It  no 
longer  retained  its  unity.  It  had  curved  on  reaching  the  zenith, 
whence  it  spread  horizontally  over  the  rest  of  the  heavens.     It 


fi i ■  ■  i  ises  in  Elocution.  2 1 9 

its  various  stages.     The  tempest  formation  was  visible, 
like   the  strata  in  the  side  of  a  trench.     It  was  possible  to  distin- 
guish the  layers  of  the  rain  from  the  beds  of  hail.     There  was  no 
tiling,  but  a  horrible,  diffused  ghre;  for  the  idea  of  horror  may 
be  attached  to  light     The  vague  breathing  of  the  storm  was  audi- 
ble; the  silence  was  broken  by  an  obscure  palpitation.     Gilliatt, 
silent,  also,  watched  the   giant   blocks  of  vapor   grouping    them- 
selves overhead,  forming  the  shapeless  mass  of  clouds.     Upon  tho 
horizon  brooded  and  lengthened  out  a  baud  of  mist  of  allien  hue; 
in  the  zenith,  another  band  of  lead  color.     Pale,  ragged  fragment! 
of  cloud  hong  from  the  great  mass  above  upon  the  mist  below.  The 
■  f  cloud  which  formed  the  background  was  wan,  dull,  gloomy. 
A  thin,  whitish,  transverse  cloud,  coming  no  one  could  tell  whither, 
cut  the  high  dark  wall  obliquely  from  north  to  south.     One  of  the 
extremities  of  this  cloud  trailed  along  the  surface  of  the  sea.     At 
the  point    where  it  touched  the  waters  a  dense  red    vapor   was 
le  in   the  midst  of  the  darkness.     Below  it,  smaller  clouds, 
quite  black  and  very  low,  were  flying  as  if  bewildered  or  moved 
by  opposite  currents  of  air.     The  immense  cloud  behind  increased 
from  all  points  at  once,  darkened   the  eclipse,  and  continued   to 
spread  its  somber  pall.     In  the  east,  behind  Gilliatt,  there  was  only 
one  clear  porch  in  the  heavens,  which  was  rapidly  being  closed. 
Without  any  feeling  of  wind  abroad,  a  strange  flight  of  gray  downy 
particles  seemed  to  pass;  they  were  fine,  and  scattered  as  if  some 
gigantic  bird  had  been  plucked  of  its  plumage  behind  the  bank  of 
cloud.     A  dark,  compact  roof  had  gradually  formed  itself,  which 
on  the  verge  of  the  horizon  touched  the  sea,  and  mingled  in  dark- 
ness  with    it.     The   beholder   had   a   vague   sense   of  something 
advancing   steadily  towards   him.     It  was  vast,  heavy,  ovninous. 
•ily  an  immense  peal  of  thunder  burst  upon  the  air. 
Gilliatt  himself  felt  the  shock.     The  rude  reality  in  the  midst  of 
that  visionary  region  has  something  in  it  terrific.     The  listener  fan- 
that  he  hears  something  falling  in  the  chamber  of  giants.     No 
accompanied  »rt     It  was  a  blind  peal.    The 

e  was  profound  again.     There  was  an  interval,  as  when  com- 
batar  ip  their  position.     Then  appeared  slowly,  one  after 

the  i  ^eless  flashes;   these  flashes  were  silent     The 

wall  of  cloud  was  now  a  \  ast  cavern,  with  roofs  and  arches.     Out- 


220  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

lines  of  forms  were  traceable  among  them ;  monstrous  ne.vis  were 
vaguely  shadowed  forth ;  rocks  seemed  to  stretch  out ;  elephants 
bearing  turrets,  seen  for  a  moment,  vanished.  A  column  of  vapor, 
straight,  round,  and  dark,  and  surmounted  by  a  white  mist,  simu- 
lated the  form  of  a  colossal  steam-vessel  engulfed  and  hissing  and 
smoking  beneath  the  waves.  Sheets  of  cloud  undulated  like  folds 
of  giant  flags.  In  the  center,  under  a  tibfak  purple  pall,  a  nucleus 
of  dense  fog  sunk  motionless,  inert,  impenetrable  by  the  electrio 
fires :  a  sort  of  hideous  fceius  in  the  bosom  of  the  tempest 

Suddenly  Gilliatt  felt  a  breath  moving  his  hair.  Two  or  three 
large  drops  of  rain  fell  heavily  around  him  on  the  rock.  Then 
there  was  a  second  thunder-clap.     The  wind  was  rising. 

The  terror  of  darkness  was  at  its  highest  point.  The  first  peal  of 
thunder  had  shaken  the  sea;  the  second  rent  the  wall  of  cloud  from 
top  to  base ;  a  breach  was  visible ;  the  pent-up  deluge  rushed  to- 
it ;  the  rent  became  like  a  gulf  filled  with  rain.  The  out- 
pouring of  the  tempest  had  begun. 

The  moment  was  terrible. 

Rain,  wind,  lightnings,  thunder,  waves  swirling  upwards  to  the 
clouds,  foam,  hoarse  noises,  whistlings,  mingled  together,  like  mon- 
sters suddenly  unloosened. 

For  a  solitary  man,  imprisoned  with  an  overloaded  bark  between 
two  dangerous  rocks  in  mid-ocean,  no  crisis  could  have  been  more 
menacing.  The  danger  of  the  tide,  over  which  he  had  triumphed, 
was  nothing  compared  with  the  danger  of  the  tempest 

II. 

THI    APPEAL    IS    HIARD. 

Some  hours  passed. 

The  sun  rose  in  an  unclouded  sky. 

Its  first  ray  shone  upon  a  motionless  form  upon  the  Great 
Douvre.     It  was  Gilliatt 

He  was  still  outstretched  upon  the  rock. 

He  was  naked,  cold,  and  stiff,  but  he  did  not  shiver.  His  closed 
eyelids  were  wan.  It  would  have  been  difficult  for  a  beholder  to 
say  whether  the  form  before  him  was  a  corpse. 

The  sun  seemed  to  look  upon  him. 

If  he  were  not  dead,  he  was  already  so  near  death  that  the 
slight  cold  would  have  sufficed  to  extinguish  life. 


Exercises  a  Elocution.  221 

The  wind  began  to  breathe,  warm  and  animating  —  the  opening 
breath  of  May. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  ascended  in  the  deep  blue  sky;  its  rays,  less 
ntal,  flushed  the  sky.  Its  light  became  warmth.  It  en- 
-d  the  slumbering  form. 

Gilliatt  moved  not.  If  he  breathed,  it  was  only  that  feeble 
respiration  which  could  scarcely  tarnish  the  surface  of  a  mirror. 

The  sun   continued  its  ascent,  its  rays  striking  less   and   less 
obliquely  upon  the  naked  man.     The  gentle   breeze,  which  had 
merely  tepid,  became  hot. 

The  rigid  and  nuked  body  remained  still  without  movement,  but 
the  skin  seemed  less  livid. 

The  sun,  approaching  the  zenith,  shone  almost  perpendicularly 
upon  the  plateau  of  the  Douvres.  A  flood  of  light  descended  from 
the  heavens;  the  vast  reflection  from  the  glassy  sea  increased  its 
splendor :  and  the  rock  itself  imbibed  the  rays  and  warmed  the 
sleeper. 

A  sigh  raised  his  breast. 

He  lived. 

The  sun  continued  its  gentle  offices.  The  wind,  which  was 
already  the  breath  of  summer  and  of  noon,  approached  him  like 
bring  lips  that  breathed  upon  him  softly. 

Gilliatt  moved. 

The  peaceful  calm  upon  the  sea  was  perfect.  Its  murmur  was 
like  the  droning  of  the  nurse  beside  the  sleeping  infant  The  rock 
seemed  cradled  in  the  waves. 

The  sea-birds,  who  knew  that  form,  fluttered  above  it;  not  with 
old,  wild  astonishment,  but  with  a  sort  of  fraternal  tender- 
nets.  They  uttered  plaintive  cries  —  they  seemed  to  be  calling  to 
him.  A  sea-mew,  who  no  doubt  knew  him,  was  tame  enough  to 
come  near  him.  It  began  to  caw  as  if  speaking  to  him.  The 
:  er  seemed  not  to  hear.  The  bird  hopped  upon  his  shouldei . 
and  pecked  his  lips  softly. 

Gilliatt  opened  his  eyes. 

The  -Tsed,  chattering  wildly. 

'.iatt  arose,  stretched   himself  like  a.  roused  lion,  rati  to  the 
edge  of  the  platform,  and  looked  down  into  the  spa  n  the 


222  ExEEOiaaa  or  Elocution. 

The  sloop  was  there,  intact ;  the  stoppage  had  held  out;  the  sea 
had  probably  disturbed  it  but  little. 

All  was  s; 

He  was  no  longer  weary.  His  powers  had  returned.  His  swoon 
had  ended  in  a  deep  I 

He  descended  and  baled  out  the  sloop,  emptied  the  hold,  raised 
the  leakage  above  the  water-line,  dressed  himself,  ate,  drank  some 
water,  and  was  joyful. 

The  gap  in  the  side  of  his  vessel,  examined  in  broad  daylight, 
proved  to  require  more  labor  than  he  had  thought  It  was  a 
H  fracture.     The  entire  day  was  too  long  for  its  repair. 

At  daybreak  on  the  morrow,  after  removing  the  barrier  and  re- 
opening the  entrance  to  the  defile,  dressed  in  the  tattered  clothing 
which  had  served  to  stop  the  leak,  having  about  him  Clubin's  girdle 
and  the  seventy-five  thousand  francs,  standing  erect  in  the  sloop, 
now  repaired,  by  the  side  of  the  machinery  which  he  had  rescued, 
with  a  favorable  breeze  and  a  good  sea,  Gilliatt  pushed  off  from  the 
Don  v  res. 

He  put  the  sloop's  head  for  Guernsey. 

At  the  moment  of  his  departure  from  the  rocks,  any  one  who 
had  been  there  might  have  heard  him  singing  in  an  undertone  the 
air  of  "Bonny  Dun  I  T  icior  Hugo. 


The  Singer. 
In  this  world,  so  wide  and  lonesome, 

One  dear  friend  have  I, — 
One  whose  loving  presence  cheers  me 

Under  every  sky : 
Never  care,  nor  pain,  nor  sorrow 

Comes  when  she  is  nigh;  — 

Who  so  blest  as  I  ? 

She  has  neither  wealth  nor  station, 

Gems  nor  precious  things ; 
She  has  only  long,  fair  tresses, 

And  most  glorious  wings; 
She  can  neither  strive  nor  labor: 

What  of  that?  she  sings, — 

Wondrously  she  sings  1 


Bxmmgumb  ix  Elocution.  22.1 

Once,  as  wearily  we  wandered 

Over  moor  and  plain, 
Up  the  1 1 ill  and  down  the  valleys, 

In  the  sun  and  rain, 
8aid  I,  softly   "  Let  some  other 

Hear  this  marvelous  strain, 

Else  you  sing  in  vain. 

44  Sing  until  the  deaf  ones  listen, — 

Sing  and  win  a  name; 
Sing  till  human  hearts,  awakened, 

Yield  you  all  you  claim  ;  — 
Sing  and  make  the  worldlings  wonder 

Angel,  sing  for  Fame  I 

Prithee  sing  for  Fame  1 " 

Then  she  tried  a  simple  measure, 

Faint  and  quivering; 
But  her  sweet  voice  failed  and  trembled 

Till,  poor  timid  thing  I 
All  the  wise  ones  sneered  and  whispereo, 

And  she  would  not  sing, — 

No,  she  would  not  sing. 

Then  I  sai  1,  *  We  two  are  friendless, 

Poor  and  unconsoled; 
I  am  growing  sad  and  hungry, 

Weary,  faint,  and  cold; 
Since  you  will  not  sing  for  Glory, 

Angel,  sing  for  Gold, — 
hee  sing  for  Gold  1  " 

So  the  throng  stood  3till  and  listened 

With  expectant  0 
But  the  sweet-voiced  singer  faltered, 

Full  of  doubts  and  fears, 
And  the  soul-enchanting  music 
1  in  sobs  and  tears, — 
>bs  and  tears! 
10* 


224  L'xERciSES  in  Elocution. 

"  Fairer  than  a  morning  blossom, 

Gentler  than  a  dove, 
Purer  than  the  sky  when  Hesper 

Bears  his  brow  above, — 
Since  you  crave  not  Gold  nor  Glory, 

Angel,  sing  for  Love,  — 

Prithee  sing  for  Love! " 

Then  she  sang,  0  most  divinely  I 

With  no  pause  or  fear, — 
Sang  until  the  best  and  prou 

Lent  an  eager  ear: 
But  the  true  soul  of  her  music 

Only  one  can  hear, — 

One  alone  can  hear  1 

Florence  Percy. 

Dannecker. 

"  I  grow  old,"  said  he,  looking  from  his  work  to  the  bust  of  the 
late  queen,  which  stood  opposite.  **  I  have  carved  the  effigies  of 
three  generations  of  poets,  and  as  many  of  princes.  Twenty  years 
ago  I  was  at  work  on  the  tomb  of  the  Duke  of  Oldenburg,  and  now 
I  am  at  work  upon  hers  who  gave  me  that  order.  All  die  away: 
soon  I  shall  be  left  alone.  Of  my  early  friends  none  remain  but 
Goethe.  I  shall  die  before  him,  and  perhaps  he  will  write  my 
epitaph."  He  spoke  with  a  smile,  not  foreseeing  that  he  would  be 
the  survivor. 

Three  years  after,  I  again  paid  Dannecker  a  visit,  but  a  change 
had  come  over  him  ;  his  feeble,  trembling  hand  could  no  longer  grasp 
the  mallet  or  guide  the  chisel ;  his  eyes  were  dim ;  his  fine  benevo- 
lent countenance  wore  a  childish,  vacant  smile,  now  and  then 
crossed  by  a  gleam  of  awakened  memory  or  thought  —  and  yet  he 
seemed  so  perfectly  happy  !  He  walked  backwards  and  forwards, 
from  his  Christ  to  his  bust  of  Schiller,  with  an  unwearied  self-com- 
placency, in  which  there  was  something  mournful,  and  yet  delight- 
ful. While  I  sat  looking  at  the  magnificent  head  of  Schiller,  the 
original  of  the  multifarious  casts  and  copies  which  are  dispersed 
through  all  Germany,  he  sat  down  beside  me,  and  taking  my  hands 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  225 

eeo  his  own,  which  trembled  with  age  and  nervous  emotion, 

to  speak  of  his  friend.     "  Nous  etions  amid  des  l'enfance; 

j'y  ai  tiavaille'  avec  amour,  avec  douleur  —  on  ne  peut  pas 

plus  t;i::v."     He  then  went  on — "When  Schiller  came  to  Louisberg, 

mt  to  tell  me  that  he  was  very  ill  —  that  he  should  not  live  very 

.  and  that  he  wished  me  to  execute  his  bust  It  was  the  first 
wish  iA'  my  heart.  I  went  immediately.  When  I  entered  the  house, 
I  found  a  lady  sitting  on  the  canape  —  it  was  Schiller's  wife,  and 
[  did  not  know  her;  but  she  knew  me.  She  said,  'Ah I  you  are 
Datmeckerl  —  Schiller  expects  you;'  then  she  ran  into  the  next 
loom,  where  Schiller  was  lying  down  on  a  couch,  and  in  a  moment 

he  came  in,  exclaiming  as  he  entered,  'Where  is  he?  where  is 
Dannecker  1 '  That  was  the  moment  —  the  expression  I  caught  — 
you  see  it  here  —  the  head  raised,  the  countenance  full  of  inspira- 
tion, and  affection,  and  bright  hopel  I  told  him  that  to  keep  up 
this  expression  he  must  have  some  of  his  best  friends  to  converse 
with  him  while  I  took  the  model,  for  I  could  not  talk  and  work 
too.  0  if  I  could  but  remember  what  glorious  things  then  fell 
from  those  lips  I     Sometimes  I  stopped  in  my  work  —  I  could  not 

i  — I  could  only  listen."  And  here  the  old  man  wept;  then 
mddenlj  changing  his  mood,  he  said — "But  I  must  cut  off  that 

hail  ;  he  never  wore  it  so;  it  is  not  in  the  fashion,  you  know  I " 

gged  him  for  Heaven's  sake  not  to  touch  it;  he  then,  with  a 

mile,  turned  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  showed  me  his  wrist, 
swelled  with  the  continual  use  of  his  implements — "You  see  I  can- 
not!"    And  I  could  not  help  wishing,  at  the  moment,  that  while 

ind  wa«  thus  enfeebled,  no  transient  return  of  physical  strength 
might  euable  him  to  put  his  wild  threat  in  execution.  What  a 
noble  bequest  to  posterity  is  the  effigy  of  a  great  man,  when  exe- 
cuted in  such  a  spirit  as  this  of  Schiller!     I  assure  you  I  could  not 

at  it  without  feeling  my  heart  "overflow  in  silent  worship"  of 
moral  and  intellectual  power,  till  the  deification  of  great  men  in 
old  times  appeared  to  me  rather  religion  than  idolatry.  I  have 
b«M-n  affected  in  the  same  manner  l>\  the  busts  of  Goethe,  Scott, 

ner,  Milton,  Howard,  Newton;   never  by  the  painted  porta 
of  the  same  men   however  perfect  in  M  tad  admirable  in 

Mn.  Jmmm, 


226  Ex:  S   IN  ELOCUTION. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 
I. 
And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days;  • 

Then  IL'.iv-n  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune,  . 

Au'l  over  it  s,.:tly  her  warm  ear  lays; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
Wt  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten, 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towera, 
blindly  above  it  for  ! 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers;  ^ 

The  flush  of  lif- 

Thrilling  b;iek  over  hills  and  valleys; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  gi ■• 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice,* 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  m&rtr 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  pal.i 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
\  And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives, 
the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sir 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  be>t  f 


how; 


Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not 
Every  thing  is  happy  now, 

Every  thing  is  upward  striving; 
'Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'Tis  the  natural  way  of  living : 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  tow. 

"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 
And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 

For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  se*. 
In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  227 

Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep; 

n  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
Ami  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 
The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees, 

The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 

The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees; 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray ; 
Twm  the  ^proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied ; 
She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  round  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tmll 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night 
The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  snn  had  >hot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  to 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  e 

Had  cast  them  forth  :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-! 
Sir  Launfal  rth  in  his  m  tail, 

.mos  for  the  Holy  GraiL 


228  ExMRomaa  is  E locution. 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sale; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armour  'gan  shrink  and  crawl. 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature. 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 
"Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
"Hi at  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold; 
lie  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  <rives  from  a  sense  of  duty ; 
But  he  who  gives  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before!" 

II. 
Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  in  every  corbel  and  rafter 
With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly. 
But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 


fioVOSM  Of  Elocution.  229 

Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 

A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 

Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 

Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!  " 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  wrecked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  crose, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Sir  Launfal'8  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

'•  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms;  " 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsorae  thing, 
The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said, — "  I  behold  in  thee 

An  image  of  him  who  died  on  the  t 

Thou  also  has  had  thy  orOWO  of  thorns, — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns,— 


230  Si  I  m  Elocution. 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

Tin;  irooodi  in  the  hands  and  feel  an<l  side: 

Mild  liarj'fl  Son,  acknowlc' 

■hi,  through  him  I  give  to  tfa 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  GraiL 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
Twas  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 
Twai  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, — 

with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 
was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  watk 

3ir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 
A  light  shone  round  about  the  place ; 
The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 
But  stood  before  him  glorified, 
Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 
As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,— 
Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine, 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 

Which  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 

With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon ; 

And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 

"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  I 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold  it  is  here, —  this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now ; 

This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 


EXMROIBMB  ix   I  tOM  231 

This  water  his  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

!y  Sapper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, — 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  tnte* 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound :  — 
"The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  1 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet  hall  ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

The  castle  gate  stand?  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er ; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 
And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise; 

is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  DOWer  at  his  command; 
And  there  is  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
l.nd  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


the  mythology  of  the   itomancer*.  the  San  fireal.  or 
-  partook  of  the  last  topper  ivitli  Inn 
o  England  byJoaeph  <>f  Arimathoa,  and  rei 

»n,  for  many  yearn  in  tin-  keeping  >f 
oeal  descend. •  unbent  npoa  loom  who  had  charge  of  it  to 

il  one  of  the  roken 

disappeared.     From  that  lime  it  was  a  favorite 
enterprise  cf  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  In  search  of  it. 

James  R.  Lowell* 


232  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Pan. 
I. 
What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
uling  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat. 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

II. 
lie  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
in  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

III. 
High  on  the  shore  sate  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 

To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

IV. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river!) 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 

And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

V. 
"  This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great  god  Pan, 

(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river,) 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed. 

He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 


r'ises  tn  Elocution.  233 

VI. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  0  Pan  I 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  0  great  god  Pan! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

VII. 
Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  rivir. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man  : 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain,- 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

Mrs.  Browning. 


Footsteps  on  the  Other  Side. 
Sitting  in  my  humble  doorway, 

Gazing  out  into  the  night) 
Listening  to  the  stormy  tumult 

With  a  kind  of  sad  delight  — 
Wait  I  for  the  loved  who  comes  not, 

One  whose  step  I  long  to  hear; 
One  who,  though  he  lingers  from  me, 

Still  is  dearest  of  the  dear. 
Soft  I  he  comes  —  now  heart  be  quick  - 

Leaping  in  triumphant  pride  1 
Oh !  it  is  a  stranger  footstep, 

Gone  by  on  the  other  aide. 

All  tin'  night  seems  filled  with  weeping, 
Winds  are  wailing  mournfully; 

And  the  rain-tears  together 
Journey  to  the  I  -ea. 

I  can  fancy,  sea,  your  murmur, 

[th  yon  araters  flow, 

Like  the  griefs  of  single  beings, 
Making  up  a  nation's  woe  I 


234  i:\ercises  in  Elocution. 

Branches,  bid  your  guests  be  silent ; 

Hush  a  moment,  fretful  rain ; 
■6,  stop  sighing —  l«-t  dm  listen, 

God  grant  not  ■gain  in  vain! 
In  my  cheek  the  sy, 

Like  the  blushes  of  a  bi 
I  »jl  alas!  ■  footstep 

Goes  on  by  the  other  side. 

Ah!  how  many  trail  forever 

For  the  steps  that  do  not  come! 
Wait  until  thfl  pitying  angels 
ir  them  to  a  peaceful  home! 
.11  of  midnight 
In  the  streets  have  lain  and  died, 
While  the  sound  of  human  footsteps 
it  by  on  the  other  side. 


Death  of  Little  ML 
■m  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop." 

By  little  and  little,  the  old  man  drew  back  towards  the  inner 
chamber,  while  these  words  were  spoken.  He  pointed  there,  as  he 
replied,  with  trembling  li; 

11  You  plot  among  you  to  wean  my  heart  from  her.  You  will 
never  do  that  —  never  while  I  have  life.  I  have  no  relative  or 
friend  but  her  —  I  never  had  —  I  never  will  have.  She  is  all  in  all 
to  me.     It  is  too  late  to  part  us  now." 

Waving  them  off  with  his  hand,  and  calling  softly  to  her  as  he 
went,  he  stole  into  the  room.  They  who  were  left  behind  drew 
close  together,  and  after"  a  few  whispered  words,  —  not  unbroken 
by  emotion,  or  easily  uttered,  —  followed  him.  They  moved  BO 
gently,  that  their  footsteps  made  no  noise,  but  there  were  sobs 
from  among  the  group,  and  sounds  of  grief  and  mourning. 

For  she  was  dead.  There,  upon  her  little  bed,  she  lay  at  rest 
The  solemn  stillness  was  no  marvel  now. 

She  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  beautiful  and  calm,  so  free  from  trace 
of  pain,  so  fair  to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  creature  fresh  from 
the  hand  of  God,  and  waiting  for  the  breath  of  life;  not  one  wh« 
had  lived  and  suffered  death. 


Her  couch  was  dressed  with,  here  and  there,  some  winter  berries 
and  green  leaves,  gathered  in  •  spot  she  had  been  used  to  favor. 
■  When  I  die,  put  MM  DM  something  that  has  loved  the  light,  and 
had  the  sky  ah  re  her  words. 

She  was  dead.  Dear,  gentle,  patient,  noble  Nell  was  dead.  Her 
little  bird  — a  poor  Blight  thing  the  pressure  of  a  finger  would  have 
crushed  —  was  stirring  nimbly  in  its  cage;  and  the  strong  heart  of 
its  child-mistress  was  mute  and  motionless  forever. 

Where  were  the  traces  of  her  early  cares,  her  sufferings  and 

fatigues?     All  gone.     This  was  the  true  death  before  their  weeping 

eyes.     Sorrow  was  dead  indeed  in  her,  but  peace  and  perfect  bap- 

sa  were  born;  imaged  in  her  tranquil  beauty  and  profound 

And  still  her  former  self  lay  there,  unaltered  in  this  change. 
The  old  fireside  had  smiled  on  that  same  sweet  face;  it  had 
1  like  a  dream  through  haunts  of  misery  and  care;  at  the 
door  of  the  poor  schoolmaster  on  the  summer  evening,  before  the 
furnace  fire  upon  the  cold,  wet  night,  at  the  still,  dying  boy,  there 
had  been  the  same  mild,  lovely  look.  So  shall  we  know  the  angels 
in  their  majesty,  after  death. 

The  old  man  held  one  languid  arm  in  his,  and  kept  the  small  hand 
tight  folded  to  his  breast,  for  warmth.     It  was  the  hand  she  had 
shed   out  to  him    with  her  last  smile — the  hand  that  had  led 
him  on  through  all  their  wanderings.     Ever  and  anon  he  passed  it 
to  his  lips;  thru  hugged  it  to  his  breast  again,  murmuring  that  it 
Wat  wanner  now ;  and  as  he  said  it,  he  looked,  in  agony,  to  those 
^ood  around,  as  if  imploring  them  to  help  her. 
She  was  dead  and  past  all  help,  or  need  of  it.     The  ancient  rooms 
she  had  seemed  to  fill  with  life,  even  while  her  owu  was  ebbinf 
—  the  gar  .  i  tendril — the  eyes  she  had  gladdened  —  the 

less  haunts  of  many  a  thoughtless  hour — the    paths  she   had 
i  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday  —  could  know  her  no  more. 
-  not,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  bent  down  to  k 
on  h<  — "it  is  not  in  this  world 

that   Seal  la.     Think  what  it  is  compared  with  the 

world   t<>   whieh   her  young  spirit  has  winged  its  8  \  and 

say,  if  one  del  d  in  solemn  u  r#  thia 

could  call  her  back  to  life,  whieh  of  us  would  utter  i 


236  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Auction  Extraordinary. 

I  dreamed  a  dream  in  the  midst  of  my  slumbers, 
And  as  fast  as  I  dreamed  it,  it  came  into  numbers; 
My  thoughts  ran  along  in  such  beautiful  meter, 
I'm  sure  I  ne'er  saw  any  poetry  sweet<  r : 

It  seemed  that  a  law  had  been  recently  made, 

That  a  tax  on  old  bachelors'  pates  should  be  laid ; 

And  in  order  to  make  them  all  willing  to  marry, 

The  tax  was  as  large  as  a  man  could  well  carry, 

The  bachelors  grumbled  and  said  'twas  no  use  — 

'Twas  horrid  injustice  and  horrid  at 

And  declared  that  to  save  their  own  heart's  blood  from  spilling 

Of  such  a  vile  tax  they  would  not  pay  a  shilling. 

But  the  rulers  determined  them  still  to  pursue, 

So  they  set  all  the  old  bachelors  up  at  vend  a-  : 

A  crier  was  sent  through  the  town  to  and  fro, 

To  rattle  his  bell  and  a  trumpet  to  blow, 

And  to  call  out  to  all  he  might  meet  in  his  way, 

u  Ho !  forty  old  bachelors  sold  here  to  day :  " 

And  presently  all  the  old  maids  in  the  town, 

Each  in  her  very  best  bonnet  and  gown, 

From  thirty  to  sixty,  fair,  plain,  red,  and  pale, 

Of  every  description,  all  flocked  to  the  sale. 

The  auctioneer  then  in  his  labor  began, 

And  called  out  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a  man, 

II  How  much  for  a  bachelor  ?  who  wants  to  buy  ? 
In  a  twink,  every  maiden  responded,  "I  —  I." 
In  short,  at  a  highly  extravagant  price, 

The  bachelors  all  were  sold  off  in  a  trice : 

And  forty  old  maidens,  some  younger,  some  older, 

Each  lugged  an  old  bachelor  home  on  her  shoulder. 

Lucretia  Davidson. 


The  Coquette, 

A    PORTRAIT. 

"  You're  clever  at  drawing,  I  own," 
Said  my  beautiful  cousin  Lisette, 

As  we  sat  by  the  window  alone, 

"But  say,  can  you  paint  a  Coquette? 


i:\ercises  in  Elocution.  237 

u  She's  painted  already,"  quoth  I ; 

.y,  nay  1  "  said  the  laughing  Lisette, 
"Now  none  of  your  joking,  —  but  try 
And  paint  me  a  thorough  Coquette." 

u  Well,  cousin,"  at  once  I  began 

In  the  ear  of  the  eager  Lisette, 
M  I'll  paint  you  as  well  as  I  can 

That  wonderful  thing  a  Coquette. 

She  wears  a  most  beautiful  face 

(Of  course  1  —  said  the  pretty  Lisette), 
And  is  n't  deficient  in  grace, 

Or  else  she  were  not  a  Coquette. 

And  then  she  is  daintily  made 

(A  smile  from  the  dainty  Lisette) 
By  people  expert  in  the  trade 

Of  forming  a  proper  Coquette. 

She's  the  winningest  ways  with  the  beaux 

(Go  on!  —  said  the  winning  Lisette), 
But  there  is  n't  a  man  of  them  knows 

The  mind  of  the  fickle  Coquette  I 

She  kuows  how  to  weep  and  to  sigh 

(A  sigh  from  the  tender  Lisette), 
But  her  weeping  is  all  in  my  eye, — 

Not  that  of  the  cunning  Coquette  1 

In  short,  she's  a  creature  of  art 

(0  hush  I  —  said  the  frowning  Liseti<), 

'y  the  ghost  of  a  heart, — 
Enough  for  a  thorough  Coquette. 

And  yet  I  could  easily  prove 

(Now  don't  I  —  said  the  angry  Lisette), 
The  lady  is  always  in  love, — 

In  love  with  herself,  —  the  Coquette  1 

Tlure,  —  do  not  be  angry  !  — you  know, 

My  dear  little  cousin  Lisette, 
You  told  me  a  moment  ago 

To  paint  yon  —  n  thorough  Coquette  I  "  flhn 


238  Ex  ix  Elocuii 

Will  the  New  Year  Oome  To-night,  Mamma  ? 
Will  the  N  come   to-nii/ijt,  mamma?  I'm   tired  of  wait- 

so, 
My  stocking  hung  by  the  chimney  side  full  three  long  days  ago. 
I  run  to  peep  within  the  door,  by  morning's  early 

:npty  still  —  Oh,  say,  mamma,   will   the   New   Year  come 
to-night  ? 

Will  the  New  Year  come  to-night,  mamma?  tl  <>ii  the  hill, 

The  ice  must  be  two  inches  thick  upon  the  meadow  rill. 
I  heard  you  tell  papa  last  night,  his  son  must  have  a  sled 

i  n't  mean  to  hear,  mamma),  and  a  pair  of  skates  you  said. 

I  prayed  for  just  those  things,  mamma,  0,  I  shall  be  full  of  glee, 
And  the  orphan  boys  in  the  village  school  will  all  be  envying  me; 
Hut  III  give  them  toys,  and  lend  them  books,  and  make  their  New 

id, 
For  God,  you  say,  takes  back  his  gifts  when  little  folks  are  bad. 

A.nd  won't  you  let  me  go,  mamma,  upon  the  New  Year's  day, 
tiling  nice  and  warm  to  poor  old  widow  Gray  ? 
I'll  lea  ear  the  door,  within  the  garden  gate, — 

Will  the  N  come  to-night,  mamma?  it  seems  so  long  to 

wait. 

The  night,  mamma,  I  saw  it  in  my  sleep, 

eking  hung  so  full,  I  thought  —  mamma,  what  makes  yon 
•  'P  ? 
But  it  only  hell  a  little  shroud  —  a  shroud  and  nothing  more: 
An  open  coffin  —  open  for  me  —  was  standing  on  the  floor. 

It  seemed  so  very  strange,  indeed,  to  find  such  gifts  instead 
Of  all  the  toys  I  wished  so  much,  the  story-book  and  sled.* 
But  while  I  wondered  what  it  meant,  you  came  with  tearful  joy 
And  said,  "  Thou'lt  find  the  PTew  Year  first ;  God  calleth  thee  mv 
boyl" 

It  is  not  all  a  dream,  mamma,  I  know,  it  must  be  true; 
But  have  I  been  so  bad  a  boy  God  taketh  me  from  you? 
I  don't  know  what  papa  will  do  when  I  am  laid  to  rest, — 
And  you  will  have  no  Willie's  head  to  fold  upon  your  breast 


Ei  s  nt  Elocution,  239 

r  comes  to-night,  mamma, — your  cold  hand  on  my 
cli«  •• 
And  raise  my  head  a  little  more  —  it  seems  so  hard  to  speak; 
tot  Gil  my  stocking  now,  I  cannot  go  and  peep, 
.orrow's  sun  is  up,  I'll  be  so  sound  asleep. 

.1  not  want  the  skates,  mamma,  I'll  never  need  the  sled; 
.\  un't  you  give  them  both  to  Blake,  who  hurt  me  on  my  head  ? 
I  to  hide  my  books  away,  and  tear  the  pictures  too, 
But  now  he'll  know  that  I  forgive,  as  then  I  tried  to  do. 

if  you  please,  mamma,  I'd  like  the  story-book  and  slate, 
To  go  to  Frank,  the  drunkard's  boy,  you  would  not  let  me  hate; 
deer  mamma,  you  won't  forget,  upon  the  New  Year  day, 
ket  full  of  something  nice  for  poor  old  widow  Gray. 

New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma,  it  seems  so  very  soon, 
I  think  God  did  n't  hear  me  ask  for  just  another  June; 
I  know  I've  been  a  thoughtless  boy,  and  made  you  too  much  can-, 
And  may  be  for  your  sake,  mamma,  He  does  n't  hear  my  prayer. 

It  cannot  be ;  but  you  will  keep  the  summer  flowers  green, 
plant  a  few  —  don't  cry,  mamma  —  a  very  few  I  mean, 
.  I'd  sleep  so  sweet  beneath  the  apple  tree, 
re  you  and  robin,  in  the  morn,  may  come  and  sing  to  me. 

The  N  comes— good-night,  mamma  —  "I  lay  me  down  to 

sleep 
y  the  Lord"  —  tell  poor  papa  —  "  my  soul  to  keep; 
If  I" — how  cold  it  seems  —  how  dark  —  kiss  me,  I  cannot  see — 
New  Year  comes  to-night,  mamma,  the  old  year — dies  with  me. 

Cora  M.  Eager. 


Marion  Moore. 
Gone,  art  thou,  Ma:  :i  Moore, 

Gone,  like  the  bird  in  the  autumn  that  singeth; 
Gone,  like  the  flower  by  the  way-side  that  springeth 
if  of  the  ivy  that  clingeth 
Round  the  lone  rock  on  the  storm  re. 

11 


240  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Dear  wert  thou,  Marion,  Marion  Moore, 
Dear  as  the  tide  in  my  broken  heart  throbbing; 
Dear  as  the  soul  o'er  thy  memory  sobbing; 
Sorrow  my  life  of  its  roses  is  robbing: 

Wasting  is  all  the  glad  beauty  of  yore. 

I  will  remember  thee,  Marion  Moore ; 
I  shall  remember,  alas  I  to  regret  thee ! 
I  will  regret  when  all  others  forget  thee ; 
Deep  in  my  breast  will  the  hour  that  I  met  thee 

Linger  and  burn  till  life's  fever  is  o'er. 

Gone,  art  thou,  Marion,  Marion  Moore  I 
Gone,  like  the  breeze  o'er  the  billow  that  bloweth  ; 
Gone,  like  the  rill  to  the  ocean  that  floweth ; 
Gone,  as  the  day  from  the  gray  mountain  goeth, 

Darkness  behind  thee,  but  glory  before. 

Peace  to  thee,  Marion,  Marion  Moore, 
Peace  which  the  queens  of  the  earth  cannot  borrow , 
Peace  from  a  kingdom  that  crowned  thee  with  sorrow  , 
01  to  be  happy  with  thee  on  the  morrow, 

Who  would  not  fly  from  this  desolate  shore. 

James  0.  Clark. 


The  Well  of  St  Keyne, 

There  is  a  well  In  Cornwall,  the  water  of  which  possesses  rare  virtues. 
If  the  husband  drinks  first  after  the  marriage,  he  gets  the  mastery  foi 
Jfe,  and  vice  versa. 

A  well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen ; 
There's  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 

But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 

A  traveler  came  to  the  well  of  St  Keyne  J 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh, 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  traveling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 


ffl  g  or  Elocution,  241 

lie  drank  of  the  water,  so  cold  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank 

Under  the  willow  tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  well  side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail 

"Art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger  ?  "  quoth  he ; 

"  For  an'  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 

That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

11  Or  hast  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast> 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been? 
For  an'  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life 

She  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"  I  have  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  made  reply ; 
"  But  why  should  she  be  the  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you,  answer  why  ?  " 

"St  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornish-man,  "many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well, 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her, 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spelL 

"If  the  husband  of  this  gifted  well 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  henceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

'But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first, 

God  help  the  husband  then ;" 
The  stranger  stoop' d  to  the  well  of  St  Keyne, 
And  drank  of  the  water  again. 


242  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

u  You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ?" 

lie  to  the  Cornish-man  said ; 
But  the  Cornish-man  smiled  as  the  stranger  spoke, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head 

"I  hastened  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch ; 
But,  i'  faith,  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church." 

Robert  Southey,  ITM. 


Thank  God  I  there's  still  a  Vanguard. 

Thank  God  !  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right  I 
Though  the  throng  flock  to  rearward, 

Lifting,  ashen  white,  * 
Flags  of  truce  to  sin  and  error, 
Clasping  hands,  mute  with  torror, 
Thank  God  1  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right. 

Through  the  wilderness  advancing, 

Hewers  of  the  way  ; 
Forward  far  their  spears  are  glancing, 

Flashing  back  the  day  : 
"  Back  I"  the  leaders  cry,  who  fear  them ; 
a  Back  1"  from  all  the  army  near  them ; 
They,  with  steady  tread  advancing, 

Cleave  their  certain  way. 

Slay  them — from  each  drop  that  falleth 

Springs  a  hero  armed : 
Where  the  martyr's  fire  appalleth, 

Lo  !  they  pass  unbanned  : 
Crushed  beneath  thy  wheel,  Oppression, 
How  their  spirits  hold  possession, 
How  the  dross-purged  voice  out-calleth, 

By  the  death-throes  warmed  I 


Exercises  in  Elocltion.  248 

Thank  God  !  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right  1 
Error's  legions  know  their  standard, 

Floating  in  the  light ; 
When  the  league  of  sin  rejoices, 
Quick  out  ring  the  rallying  voices. 
Thank  God  1  there's  still  a  vanguard 

Fighting  for  the  right  1 

Mrs.  II.  E.  O.  Artff 


Through  Death  to  Life. 

Have  you  heard  the  tale  of  the  Aloe  plant, 

Away  in  the  sunny  clime  ? 
By  humble  growth  of  a  hundred  years 

It  reaches  its  blooming  time  ; 
And  then  a  wondrous  bud  at  its  crown 

Breaks  into  a  thousand  flowers  ; 
This  floral  queen,  in  its  blooming  seen, 

Is  the  pride  of  the  tropical  bowers. 
Bat  the  plant  to  the  flower  is  a  sacrifice, 
For  it  blooms  but  once,  and  in  blooming  dies. 

IIave  you  further  heard  of  this  Aloe  plant 

That  grows  in  the  sunny  clime, 
How  every  one  of  its  thousand  flowers, 

As  they  drop  in  the  blooming  time, 
Is  an  infant  plant  that  fastens  its  roots 

In  the  place  where  it  tails  on  the  ground; 
And,  fast  as  they  drop  from  the  dying  stem, 

Grow  lively  and  lovely  around  ? 
By  dying  it  liveth  a  thousand-fold 
In  the  young  that  spring  from  the  death  of  the  old. 

you  heard  the  tale  of  the  Pelican, 

The  Arab's  Giuiel  d  P.ahr, 
That  lives  in  tin  olitudei, 

Where  the  birds  that  live  lonely  are! 


844  Exercises  in  Elocution 

Have  you  heard  how  it  loves  its  tender  young, 
And  cares  and  toils  for  their  good  ? 

It  brings  them  water  from  fountains  afar, 
And  fishes  the  seas  for  their  food. 

In  famine  it  feeds  them — what  love  can  devise ! — 

The  blood  of  its  bosom,  and  feeding  them  die*. 

Have  you  heard  the  tale  they  tell  of  theswan, 

The  snow-white  bird  of  the  lake? 
It  noiselessly  floats  on  the  silvery  wave, 

It  silently  sits  in  the  brake ; 
For  it  saves  its  song  till  the  end  of  life, 

And  then,  in  the  soft,  still  even, 
'Mi<l  tin-  goldfll  liirlit  of  the  setting  sun, 

It  sings  as  it  soars  into  heaven  ! 
And  the  blessed  notes  fall  back  from  the  skies  ; 
*Tis  its  only  song,  for  in  singing  it  dies. 

You  have  heard  these  tales ;  shall  I  tell  you  one 

A  greater  and  better  than  all  ? 
Have  you  heard  of  Him  whom  the  heavens  adore, 

Before  whom  the  hosts  of  them  fall  ? 
H<>w  II<   left  the  choirs  and  anthems  above, 

For  earth  in  its  wailings  and  woes, 
To  suffer  the  shame  and  pain  of  the  cross, 

And  die  for  the  life  of  His  foes  ? 
O  prince  of  the  noble  !  O  sufferer  divine  I 
What  sorrow  and  sacrifice  equal  to  Thine  1 

Harry  Harbavgk. 


Minnie  an'  Me. 

The  following  little  poem  Is  full  of  genuiae  feeling  as  well  as  of  poetic  beauty.  Yoi 
md  almost  see  the  wee  thins  as  she  follows  her  grandfather  over  the  fields,  cheering 
his  loneliness  with  the  music  of  her  childish  prattle,  or  at  night  toying  with  his  whlt« 
locks  and  u  keeking  '*  through  his  spectacles. 

The  spring  time  had  come  ;  we  were  sowing  the  corn  ; 

When  Minnie — wee  Minnie — my  Minnie  was  born ; 
t$he  came  when  the  swTeet  blossoms  burst  for  the  bee, 

An'  a  sweet  bud  of  beauty  was  Minnie  to  me. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  24a 

The  harvest  was  ower,  an'  yellow  the  leaf^ 

When  Mary,  my  daughter,  was  smitten  wi'  grief; 

0,  little  thought  I  my  dear  Mary  wad  dee, 
An'  leave  as  a  blessing  wee  Minnie  to  me. 

Her  hair's  like  the  lang  trailing  tresses  o'  night; 

Her  face  is  the  dawn  o'  day,  rosy  and  bright; 
Sae  bashfu',  sae  thoughtfu',  yet  cheery  an'  free; 

She  just  is  a  wonder  my  Minnie  to  me. 

Her  smile  is  sae  sweet,  an'  sae  glancin'  her  een, 
They  bring  back  the  face  o'  my  ain  bonny  Jean, 

Mair  clear  than  the  linties  that  sing  on  the  tree 
Is  the  voice  o'  my  Minnie  when  singing  to  me. 

For  mony  long  years  I'd  been  doiting  alane, 
When  Minnie  reveal'd  the  old  feelings  again; 

In  the  barn  or  the  byre,  on  the  hill  or  the  lea, 
My  bonnie  wee  Minnie  is  seldom  frae  me. 

Wherever  she  moves  she  lets  slip  a  wee  crumb, 
To  beasties  or  birdies,  the  helpless  and  dumb ; 

How  she  feeds  them,  and  leads,  it's  bonny  to  see; 
Oh  1  a  lesson  o'  loving  is  Minnie  to  me. 

Whenever  she  hears  my  slow  step  on  the  floor, 
She  stands  wi'  her  han'  on  the  sneck  o'  the  door, 

An'  welcomes  me  ben  wi'  a  face  fu'  o'  glee, 
0  nane  are  sae  happy  as  Minnie  an*  me. 

Sh«'  trots  to  the  corner,  an'  sets  me  a  chair, 

She  plays  wi'  my  haffets,  and  cames  down  my  hair; 

Or  keeks  through  my  speck,  as  she  sits  on  my  knee ; 
0  were  't  not  for  Minnie,  I  think  I  wad  dee. 

But  I  '11  nae  talk  o'  deeing  while  work  's  to  be  done, 

But  potter  about,  or  sit  still  in  the  sun ; 
Till  Providence  pleases  ray  spirit  to  free, 

Ohl  nae  power  shall  sever  my  Minnie  frae  me. 


246  EXMMOnm  ix  A'Loc/riox. 

My  Darling's  Shoes, 
God  bless  the  little  feet  that  ean  never  go  astray, 

For  the  little  shoes  are  empty  in  the  closet  laid  away; 
Sometimes  I  take  one  in  rny  hand,  forgetting  till  I  see, 

It  is  a  little  half- worn  shoe  not  large  enough  for  me; 
And  all  at  once  I  feel  a  sense  of  bitter  loss  and  pain, 

As  sharp  as  when,  two  years  ago,  it  cut  my  heart  in  twain. 

0  little  feet,  that  wearied  not,  I  wait  for  them  no  more, 

For  lam  drafting  on  the  tide,  but  they  have  reached  the  shore  ; 

And  while  the  blinding  tear-drops  wet  these  little  shoes  so  oM, 
They  walk  nnsandalled  in  the  streets  that  pearly  gates  enfold- 

>  I  lay  them  down  again,  but  always  turn  to  say, 
"  God  bless  the  little  feet  that  now  surely  cannot  stray." 

And  while  I  am  thus  standing,  I  almost  seem  to  see 

little  form  ne,  just  as  they  used  to  be, — 

Twu  lit  i  their  sweet  and  tender  eyes, 

Ah,  me!  n  that  look  was  born  of  Paradise. 

h  my  arms  out  fondly,  but  they  clasp  the  empty  air; 

Dg  of  my  darlings  but  the  shoes  they  used  to  wear 

Oh  1  the  bitterness  of  parting  can  ne'er  be  done  away 

Till  I  see  my  darlings  walking  heir  feet  can  never  stray. 

When  I  no  more  am  drifting  upon  the  surging  tide, 
with  them  saA-ly  landed  upon  the  river  side; 

Be  patient,  heart,  while  waiting  to  see  their  shining  way, 
For  the  little  feet,  in  the  golden  street,  can  never  go  astray. 


Unwritten  Music 

There  is  unwritten  music.  The  world  is  full  of  it  I  hear  it 
every  hour  that  I  wake;  and  my  waking  sense  is  surpassed  some- 
times by  my  sleeping,  though  that  is  a  mystery.  There  is  no  sound 
of  simple  nature  that  is  not  music.  It  is  all  God's  work,  and  so 
harmony.  You  may  mingle,  and  divide,  iuv\  strengthen  the  pass- 
<>f  its  great  anthem;  and  itjs  still  melody, — melody. 

The  low  winds  of  summer  blow  over  the  waterfalls  and  the 
brooks,  and  bring  their  voices  to  your  ear,  as  if  their  sweetness 
were  linked  by  an  accurate  finger;  yet  the  wind  is  but  a  fitful 


9   TN  EbOCUTI  247 

player;   and  you  may  go  out  when  the  tempest  is  up,  and  hear  the 
•aningas  they  lean  before  it,  and  the  long  grass  I 
sweeps  through,  and  lemn  monotony  over  all; 

and  the  dimple  of  that  same  brook,  and  the  waterfall's  unaltered 
bass  shall  still  reach  you,  in  the  intervals  of  its  power,  as  much  in 
harmony  as  before,  and  as  much  a  part  of  its  perfect  and  perpetual 
hymn. 

There  is  no  accident  of  nature's  causing  which  can  bring  in 
discord.     The  loosened  rock  may  fall  into  the  abyss,  and  the  over- 
blown tree  rush  down  through  the  branches  of  the  wood,  and  the 
thunder  peal  awfully  in  the  sky ;  and  sudden  and  violent  as  these 
changes  seem,  their  tumult  goes  up  with  the  sound  of  wind  and 
\  and  the  exquisite  ear  of  the  musician  can  detect  no  jar. 
I  have  read  somewhere  of  a  custom  in  the  Highlands,  which,  in 
conneetion  with  the  principle  it  involves,  is  exceedingly  beautiful. 
red  that,  to  the  ear  of  the  dying  (which,  just  before  death 
tnea    always   exquisitely  acute),    the   perfect  ha:mony  of  the 
M  of  nature  is  so  ravishing,  as  to  make  him  forget  his  Buffering 
and  die  gently,  like  one  in  a  pleasant  trance.     And  so,  when  the 
moment  approaches,  they  take  him  from  the  close  shieling,  and 
him  out  into  the  open  sky,  that  he  may  hear  the  familiar  rush- 
f  the  streams.     I  can  believe  that  it  is  not  superstition.     I  do 
think    we   know   how   exquisitely   nature's  many    voices   are 
attuned  to  harmony,  and  to  each  other. 

The  old  philosopher  we  read  of  might  not  have  been  dreaming 
.  he  discovered  that  the  order  of  the  sky  was  like  a  scroll  of 
written  music,  and  t  irs  (which  are  said  to  have  app< 

leath,  in  the  very  ptl 
wanting  to  complete  the  harmony.     We  know  how  wonderful  are 
phenomena  of  color;  how  strangely  like  oonsnmmate  art  the 
Strom  d  in  the  plumage  of  birds,  and  in  the 

of  flowers;  so  that,  to  the  practiced  eye  of  the  painter,  the  barn 

It  is  natural  to  suppo  part  o(  the 

and  it  is  a 
that  the  stars  oi  are  moving  on  continually  to  music,  and 

daily  list*".  Bt  part  of  a  melody  that 

iod's  illimitable  spheres. 

II* 


248  iBZMMOJ&m  IN  ELOCUTION. 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperui. 
It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
That  suiled  the  wintry  sea; 
And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax, 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day  ; 
Her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  .skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm 

His  pipe  was  in  his  mouth, 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke,  now  west,  now  south. 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor, 
Had  sailed  the  Spanish  main  ;  — 
4t  I  j»ray  thee  put  into  yonder  port 
For  I  fear  the  hurricane." 

"  Last  night  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 
And  to-night  no  moon  we  see." 
But  the  skipper  he  blew  a  whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a  scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind 
A  gale  from  the  northeast, 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 
And  the  billows  frothed  like  3 

Down  came  the  storm  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 

She  shuddered  and  paused  like  a  frightened  steed, 

Then  leaped  her  cable's  length. 

"Come  hither  1  come  hither;  my  little  daughter 

And  do  not  tremble  so ; 

For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale 

That  ever  wind  did  tlovv." 


Ex  9  in  Elocution.  249 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast, 

He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

"  0  father !  I  hear  the  church  bells  ring 
0  say  I  what  may  it  be?" 
"  Tis  a  fog  bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast, " 
\m\  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

"O  father!  I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 
0  say  1  what  may  it  be?" 
"  Some  ship  in  distress  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea." 

"0  father,  I  see  a  gleaming  light; 
0  say  what  may  it  be?" 
But  the  father  answered  never  a  word, 
A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 

Lashed  to  the  helm  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  tamed  1<»  die  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow, 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Th^n  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 
That  saved  she  might  be  — 
And  sho  thought  of  Christ  who  stilled  the  ware 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
ted  ehn^t  t  wept, 

Toward  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

ind  came  from  the  land, 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hnrd  sea  sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 
She  drilled  a  dreary  \\ 

I  whooping  hil!  the  crew 

Like 


25°  /-XKRCTSES  IN  ELOCUTION. 

She  stru.-k  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool, 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  sides 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 
With  the  masts  went  by  the  board; 
Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove — and  sank, 
a  Hoi  Ho  1 "  the  breakers  roared. 

At  day-break  on  a  bleak  sea  beach, 
A  fisherman  stood  aghast, 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair 
Lashed  close  to  a  drifting  mast 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast 

The  salt  tears  in  her  c\ 

And  he  saw  her  hair  like  the  brown  sea  weed 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 
In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ; 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this, 
On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

LonyfeJlow. 

God. 

The  following  poom  Is  a  translation  from  the  Russian.  It  has  been 
translated  Into  Japanese,  by  order  of  the  emperor,  and  is  hung  up,  em- 
broldered  with  gold,  In  the  temple  of  Jeddo.  It  lias  also  been  translated 
Into  the  Chinese  and  Tartar  languages*  written  on  apiece  of  rich  t  ik, 
•nd  suspended  in  the  imperial  palace  at  Pekin. 

0  Tnou  eternal  One!  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  dUh  occupy,  all  motion  guide; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-devastating  flight; 
Thou  only  God  !     There  is  no  God  beside  1 
Being  above  all  beiugsl     Three-in-One! 
Whom  none  can  comprehend, and  none  explore; 
Who  lill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone  ; 
Embracing  all — supporting — ruling  o'er — 
Being  whom  we  call  God — and  know  no  more ! 


ExMBCiSMa  in  Elocution,  251 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

Measure  out  the  ocean  deep — may  count 
The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays —  but  God  1  for  Thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure; — none  can  mount 
Up  to  Thy  mystr  i-on's  brightest  spark, 

i  '.  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 

To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark; 
And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high  — 
E'en  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call, 
First  chaos,  then  existence; — Lord!  on  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation;  —  all 
Sprung  forth  from  Thee;  —  of  light,  joy,  harmony, 
Sole  origin;  —  all  life,  all  beauty,  Thine. 
Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create; 
Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine; 
Thou  art,  ami  wert,  and  shall  be!     Glorious, 
Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate  1 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround; 
Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath! 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death! 
As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze, 
So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee, 
And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 
Shine  around  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 

A  million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  h 

:  unwearied  through  the  blue  aby.*s; 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 
All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  W 

shall  we  call  them  ?     Pyres  of  crystal  light  — 
A  glo  ;  any  of  gol  — 

Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright  — 
8uns  lighting  systems  with  th«-ir  joyful  beams? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night 

Yes  las  a  drop  n  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  T  j  — 

What  are  ten  thousuu  > 


252  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

And  what  am  /  then  ?    Heaven's  unnumbered  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  th«  balance  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness,  is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity !     What  am  /  then  ?     Naught ! 
Naught!     But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too ; 
Yes,  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine, 
As  shines  the  sunbeam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught  I  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 
Eager  toward  Thy  presence ;  for  in  Thee 
I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ;  aspiring  high 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 
I  am,  0  God!  and  surely  Thou  must  be! 
Tiiou  art!  directing,  guiding  all,  Thou  art! 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart; 
Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 
Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  by  Thy  hand  I 
I  hold  a  middle  rank,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth, 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 
Close  to  the  realm  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit  land ! 
The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me  ; 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
And  the  next  step  is  spirit  —  Deity! 
I  can  command  the  lightning  and  am  dust! 
A  monarch,  and  a  slave;  a  worm,  a  god  I 
Whence  came  I  here,  and  how?  so  marvellously 
Constructed  and  conceived  ?  unknown !  this  clod 
Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy; 
For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be  I 
Creator,  yes!  Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me/     Thou  source  of  life  and  good  ! 
Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord ! 
Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  the  bright  plenitude, 
Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death,  and  bade  it  wear 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  253 

The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 
Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  the  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source —  to  Thee  —  its  author  there. 

0  thoughts  ineffable!  0  visions  blestl 
Though  worthless  our  conception  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 
Godl  thus  alone  ray  lonely  thoughts  can  soar; 
Thus  seek  Thy  presence  —  Being  wise  and  good, 
Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore; 
And,  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more, 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 

Derzhavin. 


Aunt  Kindly. 

Miss  Kinoly  is  aunt  to  every  body,  and  has  been  so  long  that 

none  remember  to  the  contrary.     The  little  children  love  her;  she 

helped  their  grandmothers  to  bridal  ornaments  three-score  years 

ago.     Nay,  this  boy's  grandfather  found  his  way  to  college  through 

her  pocket.     Generations  not  her  own  rise  up  and  call  her  blessed. 

To  this  man's  father  her  patient  toil  gave  the  first  start  in  life. 

That  great  fortune  —  when  it  was  a  seed  she  carried  it  in  her  hand. 

That  wide  river  oi  reputation  ran  out  of  the  cup  her  bounty  filled. 

she  is  old  ;  very  old.     The  little  children,  who  cling  about  her, 

with  open  mouth  and  great   round  eyes,   wonder  that  anybody 

11  ever  be  so  old;  or  that  Aunt  Kindly  ever  had  a  mother  to 

:er  mouth.     To  them  she  is  coeval  with  the  sun,  and,  like  that, 

an  institution  of  the  country.     At  Christmas  they  think  she  is  the 

wife  of  Saint  Nicholas  himself,  such  an  advent  of  blessings  is  there 

from  her  hand.     She  has  helped  to  lay  a  blessing  in  many  a  poor 

man's  crib. 

Now  these  things  are  passed  by.     No,  they  are  not  passed  by ; 

1  in  the  memory  of  the  dear  God,  and  e 

good  has  done  is  treasured  in  D*f  own   heart.     The  bulb 

shuts  up  the  summer  in  its  breast  which  in  winter  will  come  out  a 

fragrant  hyacinth.     Stratum  after  stratum  her  good  works  are  laid 

up,  im;  n  the  geology  of  her  char. 

She  has  been  thoughtful  all  day, 
talking  inwardly  to  i  .  nothing. 


254  El  I  m  Elocution. 

In  a  chamber,  from  a  private  drawer,  she  takes  a  little  casket,  and 
from  thence  a  book,  gilt-e<lged  and  clasped;  but  the  clasp  is  worn, 
the  gilding  is  old,  the  binding  is  faded  by  long  use.  Her  hand? 
tremble  as  she  opens  it.  First  she  reads  her  own  name  on  the  fly- 
leaf; only  her  Christian  name,  "Agnes,"  and  the  date.  Sixty-eight 
years  ago  this  day  it  was  written  there,  in  a  clear,  youthful,  clerkly 
hand  —  with  a  little  tremble  in  it,  as  if  the  heart  beat  over  it  quick. 
If  is  a  very  well  worn,  dear  old  Bible.  It  opens  of  its  own  accord 
a'„  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  John.  There  is  a  little  folded  piece  of 
paper  there;  it  touches  the  first  verse  and  the  twenty-seventh. 
She  sees  neither;  she  reads  both  out  of  her  soul;  "Let  not  your 
heart  be  troubled  ;  ye  believe  in  God ;  believe  also  in  me."  "  Peace 
I  leave  with  yon.  My  peace  give  I  unto  you.  Not  as  the  world 
giveth  give  I  unto  you."  She  opens  the  paper.  There  is  a  little 
brown  dost  in  it;  perhaps  the  remnant  of  a  flower.  She  takes  the 
precious  relic  in  her  band,  made  cold  by  emotion.  She  dropfl  a 
i  it,  and  the  dust  is  transfigured  before  her  eyes;  it  is  a  red 
rose  of  the  spring,  not  quite  half  blown,  dewy  fresh.  She  is  old 
n<>  longer.  It  is  not  Aunt  Kindly  nowj  it  is  sweet  Agnes,  as  the 
maiden  of  eighteen  was  eight-and-sixty  years  ago,  one  day  in  May, 
when  all  nature  was  woosome  and  winning,  and  every  flower-bell 
rung  in  the  marriage  of  the  year.  Her  lover  had  just  put  that  red 
rose  of  the  spring  into  her  hand,  and  the  good  God  another  in  her 
cheek,  not  quite  halt-blown,  dewy  fresh.  The  young  man's  arm  is 
round  her;  her  brown  curls  fall  on  his  shoulder;  she  feels  his 
breath  on  her  face,  his  cheek  on  hers;  their  lips  join,  and,  like  two 
morning  dew-drops  in  that  rose,  their  two  loves  rush  into  one. 
But  the  youth  must  wander  to  a  far  land.  They  will  think  of  each 
other  as  they  look  at  the  North  Star.  She  bids  him  take  her  Bible. 
He  saw  the  North  Star  hang  over  the  turrets  of  many  a  foreign 
town.  His  soul  went  to  God  —  there  is  as  straight  a  road  from 
India  as  from  any  other  spot  —  and  his  Bible  came  back  to  her  — 
the  divine  love  in  it,  without  the  human  lover ;  the  leaf  turned 
down  at  the  blessed  words  of  John,  first  and  twenty-seventh  of  the 
fourteenth  chapter.  She  put  the  rose  there  to  note  the  spot ;  what 
marks  the  thought  holds  now  the  symbol  of  their  youthful  love. 
Now  to-day  her  soul  is  with  him,  her  maiden  soul  with  his  angel 
soul;  and  one  day  the  two,  like  two  dew-drops,  will  rush  into  one 
immortal  wedlock,  and  the  old  age  of  earth  shall  become  eternal 
vouth  in  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 


Exmsomma  /     Elocution.  255 

The  Great  Bell  Roland, 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
In  old  St.  Bavon's  tower, 
At  midnight  hour, 
The  great  bell  Roland  spoke ; 
And  all  that  slept  in  Ghent  awoke  I 
What  meant  the  thunder  stroke? 
Why  trembled  wife  and  maid? 
Why  caught  each  man  his  blade  ? 
Why  echoed  every  street 
With  tramp  of  thronging  feet, 

All  flying  to  the  city's  wall  ? 

It  was  the  warning  call 
That  Freedom  stood  in  peril  of  a  foe ! 
And  even  timid  hearts  grew  bold 
Whenever  Roland  tolled, 
And  every  hand  a  sword  conld  hold  I 
And  every  arm  could  bend  a  bow  I 

So  acted  men 

Like  patriots  then — 
Three  hundred  years  ago  1 

Toll  1  Roland,  toll ! 
Bell  never  yet  was  hung, 
Between  whose  lips  there  swung 
So  grand  a  tongue  I 

If  men  be  patriots  still, 

At  thy  first  sound 

True  hearts  will  bound, 

Great  souls  will  thrill  I 
Then  toll !  and  let  thy  test 
Try  each  man's  breast, 
mi  stand  c<  i 

Toll  I  R..lan.l,  toll  I 
Not  now  in  old  St,  Bavon's  tower ; 
Not  now  at  midnight  hour; 
Not  now  from  river  Scheldt  to  Zuyder  Zee, 

But  here, — this  . ;i! — 

Toll  heiv,  in  broad,  bright  day  1 — 


250  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

For  not  by  night  awaits 
A  noble  foe  without  the  gates. 
But  perjured  friends  within  betray, 
And  do  the  deed  at  noon  I 

Toll!  Roland,  toll  I 
Thy  sound  is  not  too  soon  1 
To  Arms  1  Ring  out  the  Leader's  call  1 
Re-echo  it  from  East  to  West, 
Till  every  hero's  breast 
Shall  swell  beneath  a  soldier's  crest  1 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  cottager  from  cottage-wall 
Snatch  pouch  and  powder-horn  and  gun  ! 
The  heritage  of  sire  to  son 
Ere  half  of  Freedom's  work  was  done ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  swords  from  scabbards  leap ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
What  tears  can  widows  weep  » 

Less  bitter  than  when  brave  men  fall ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
In  shadowed  hut  and  hall 
Shall  lie  the  soldier's  pall, 
And  hearts  shall  break  while  graves  are  filled 
Amen !  So  God  hath  willed ! 
And  may  His  grace  anoint  us  all ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
The  Dragon  on  thy  tower 
Stands  sentry  to  this  hour, 
And  Freedom  now  is  safe  in  Ghent! 
And  merrier  bells  now  ring, 
And  in  the  land's  serene  content, 
Men  shout  "  God  save  the  King  I" 

Until  the  skies  are  rent  I 
So  let  it  be  1 
A  kingly  king  is  he 
Who  keeps  his  people  free  ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Ring:  out  across  the  sea ! 


Exercises  in  Elocution  257 

No  longer  They  but  We 
Have  now  such  need  of  thee ! 

Toll !  Roland,  toll ! 
Nor  ever  let   thy  throat 
Keep  dumb  its  warning  note 
Till  Freedom's  perils  be  outbraved  I 

Toll  1  Roland,  toll ! 
Till  Freedom's  flag,  wherever  waved, 
Shall  shadow  not  a  man  enslaved  1 

Toll !  Roland,  toll  I 
From  Northern  lake  to  Southern  strand ! 

Toll!  Roland,  toll! 
Till  friend  and  foe,  at  thy  command, 
Shall  clasp  once  more  each  other's  hand, 
And  shout,  one-voiced,  "  God  save  the  land !" 
And  love  the  land  that  God  hath  saved  1 

Toll  I  Roland,  toll  1 

Theodore  Tilton. 


The  Young  Gray  Head. 
I'm  thinking  that  to-night,  if  not  before, 

11  be  wild  work.     Dost  hear  old  Chew  ton  roar? 
It's  brewing  up,  down  westward ;  and  look  there  1 
One  of  those  sea  gulls  I  ay,  there  goes  a  pair ; 
And  such  a  sudden  thaw !  If  rain  comes  on 
As  threats,  the  water  will  be  out  anon. 
That  path  by  the  ford  is  a  nasty  bit  of  way, 
Best  let  the  young  ones  bide  from  school  to-day. 

The  children  join  in  this  request;  but  the  mother  resolves  that 
all   set  out  —  the  two  girls,  Lizzie  and  Jenny,  the  one  five, 
ther  seven.     As  the  dame's  will  was  law,  so  — 
One  last  fond  kiss  — 

"God  bless  my  little  maids,"  the  father  said, 
And  cheerily  went  his  way  to  win  their  bread. 

Prepared  for  their  journey  they  depart,  with  the  mother's  admo- 
nition to  the  elder  — 
"Now,  mind  and  bring 
Jenny  safe  home,"  the  mother  said.     "  Don't  stay 


258  Exercisks  ix  Elocution. 

To  pull  a  bough  or  berry  by  the  way  ; 

And  when  you  OORM  to  cro*s  the  ford,  hold  fast 

Your  little  sister's  hand  till  you're  quite  p 

That  plank  is  so  crazy,  and  so  slippery, 

If  not  overflowed  the  stepping  stones  will  be ; 

But  you're  good  children  —  steady  as  old  folk, 

I'd  trust  ye  anywhere."     Then  Lizzie's  cloak 

(A  good  gray  duffle)  lovingly  she  I. 

And  amply  little  Jenny's  lack  supplied  • 

With  her  own  warmest  shawl.     "Be  sure,"  said  she, 

"To  wrap  it  round,  and  knot  it  carefully, 

(Like  this)  when  you  come  home — just  leaving  free 

One  hand  to  hold  by.     Now,  make  haste  away  — 

Good  will  to  school  and  then  good  right  to  play." 

The  mother  watches  them  with  foreboding,  though  she  knows 
not  why.     In  a  little  while  the  threatened  storm  sets  in.     Night 
comes,  and  with  it  comes  the  father  from  his  daily  toil  —  There's  a 
treasure  hidden  in  his  hat  — 
A  plaything  for  his  young  ones,  he  has  found  — 
A  dormouse  nest;  the  living  ball  coil'd  round 
For  its  long  winter  sleep;  all  his  thought 
As  he  trudged  stoutly  homeward,  was  of  naught 
But  the  glad  wonderment  in  Jenny's  eyes, 
And  graver  Lizzie's  quieter  surprise, 
When  he  should  yield,  by  guess  and  kiss  and  prayer, 
Hard  won,  the  frozen  captive  to  their  care. 

No  little  faces  greet  him  as  wont  at  the  threshold;    and  to  his 
hurried  question  — 
"Are  they  come?" — t'was  "no," 
To  throw  his  tools  down,  hastily  unhook 
The  old  crack'd  lantern  from  its  dusty  nook 
And,  while  he  lit  it,  speak  a  cheering  word 
That  almost  choked  him,  and  was  scarcely  heard, — 
Was  but  a  moment's  act,  and  he  was  gone 
To  where  a  fearful  foresight  led  him  on. 

A    neighbor  goes  with  him,  and   the    faithful   dog  follows  the 
children's  tracks. 


u  Hold  the  light 

Low  down,  he's  making  for  the  water.     Hark  ! 

[  know  that  whine ;  the  old  dog's  found  them,  Mark ;  " 

So  speaking,  breathlessly  he  hurried  on 

1  the  old  crazy  foot  bridge.     It  was  gone ! 
And  all  his  dull  contracted  light  could  show 
Was  the  black,  void,  and  dark  swollen  stream  below; 

I  there's  life  somewhere  —  more  than  Tinker's  whine  — 
Th^j*  sure,"  said  Mark.     "  So,  let  the  lantern  shine 
Down  yonder.     There's  the  dog —  and  hark  1 " 
"  <?dear  I " 
And  a  low  sob  come  faintly  on  the  ear, 

vL'd  by  the  sobbing  gust.     Down  quick  aa  thought, 
Into  the  stream  leaped  Ambrose,  where  he  caught 
hold  of  something  —  a  dark  huddled  heap  — 
Half  in  the  water,  where  'twas  scarce  knee  deep 
For  a  tall  man;  and  half  above  it  propped 
>me  old  ragged  side-piles  that  had  stop't 
a  ays  the  broken  plank  when  it  gave  way 
With  the  two  little  ones,  that  luckless  day  1 
*  My  babes  I  my  lambkins  1 "  was  the  father's  cry, 
One  little  voice  made  answer,  "  Here  am  I ;" 

H  Lizzy's.     There  she  crouched  with  face  as  white, 
•  ghastly,  by  the  flickering  lantern  light, 
iieeted  corpse.     The  pale  blue  lips  drawn  ticrht* 
;>arted,  showing  all  the  pearly  teeth, 
And  eyes  on  some  dark  object  underneath, 

i  by  the  turbid  waters,  fix'd  like  stone  — 
One  arm  and  hand  stretched  out,  and  rigid  grown, 
Grasping,  as  in  the  death-gripe,  Jenny's  frock. 
There  she  lay  drown'd. 

'ted  her  from  out  her  watery  bed  — 
Dg  gone,  the  lovely  little  head 
ITung  like  a  broken  snowdrop  all  aside, 
And  one  small  hand.     The  mother's  shawl  was  tied 

Dg  that  free  about  the  child's  small  form, 
As  was  her  last  injunction — "fast  and  warm," 
Too  well  obeyed  —  too  fast !     A  fatal  held. 


260  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Affording  to  the  scrag,  by  a  thick  fold 

That  caught  and  pinned  her  to  the  river's  bed. 

While  through  the  reckless  water  overhead, 

Her  life  breath  bubbled  up. 

"  She  might  have  lived, 

Struggling  like  Lizzy,"  was  the  thought  that  rived 

The  wretched  mother's  heart  when  she  heard  all, 

"  But  for  my  foolishness  about  that  shawL" 

'  Who  say 8  I  forgot? 

Mother  1  indeed,  indeed  I  kept  fast  hold, 

And  tied  the  shawl  quite  close — she 

Can't  be  cold  — 

But  she  won't  move  —  we  slept  —  I  don't  know  how  — 

But  I  held  on,  and  I'm  so  weary  now  — 

Ami  its  so  dark  and  cold  I  Oh  dear  I  oh  dear  I 

And  she  won't  move  —  if  father  were  but  here  !" 

All  night  long  from  side  to  side  she  turn'd, 

PSteoasiy  plaining  like  a  wounded  dove. 

With  now  and  then  the  murmur  "She  won't  move," 

And  lol  when  morning,  as  in  mockery,  bright 

Shone  on  that  pillow  —  passing  strange  the  sight, 

The  young  head's  raven  hair  was  streaked  with  white ! 

Mrs.  Southey 


The  Suliote  Mother. 

She  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak, 

Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 

u  Dost  thou  see  them,  boy? — through  the  dusky  pines? 
Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman's  armor  shines  ? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's  crest  ? 
My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast  1 
Wouldst  thou  spring  from  my  mother's  arms  with  joy  ? 
—That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  boy  !" 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  261 

For  in  the  rocky  strait  beneath, 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son ; 
They  had  heap'd  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

"  They  have  cross'd  the  torrent,  and  on  they  come 
Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home ! 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear, 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear, 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe !  to  sleep, 
Naught  but  the  blood-stain  our  trace  shall  keep  I" 

And  now  the  horn's  loud  blast  was  heard, 

And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 
Till  even  the  upper  air  was  stirr'd, 

As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

"Hark!  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child  I 

What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suli's  wild  I 

Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  fire 

As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? — 

Still !  —  be  thou  still  I  —  there  are  brave  men  low  — 

Thou  wouldst  not  smile  couldst  thou  see  him  now! 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel, 

And  louder  swell'd  the  horn, 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal 

Through  the  dark  pass  was  borne. 

"  Hear'st  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth  ? — 
Boy !  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth, — 
Free,  and  how  cherish'd,  my  warrior's  son  I 
He,  too,  hath  bless'd  thee,  as  I  have  done ! 
Aye,  and  unchain'd  must  his  loved  ones  be  — 
Freedom,  young  Suliote  I  for  thee  and  me  1" 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  she  sprung, 

And  fast  the  fair  child  bore ; — 
A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  flung, 

A  cry  —  and  all  was  o'er  I 

Amm 


202  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

SandalphoiL 
Have  you  read  in  th«>  Talmud  of  old, 
In  the  Legends  the  Rabbins  have  told, 
Of  the  limitless  realms  of  the  air, — 

you  read  it, — the  marvelous  story 
Of  Sandalphon,  the  angel  of  Glory, 
Sandalphon,  the  angel  of  Prayer  ? 

How  erect,  at  the  outermost  gates 
Of  the  City  Celestial,  he  waits, 
With  his  feet  on  the  ladder  of  light, 
That,  crowded  with  angels  unnumbered, 
By  Jacob  was  seen,  as  he  slumbered 
Alone  in  the  desert  at  night? 

Angels  of  Wind  and  of  Fire 
Chant  only  one  hymn,  and  expire 
With  the  song's  irresistible  stress; 

Ire  in  their  rapture  and  wonder, 
As  harp  strings  are  broken  asunder 
By  music  they  throb  to  express. 

But  serene  in  the  rapturous  throng, 
Unmoved  by  the  rush  of  the  song, 
With  eyes  unimpassioi.  <w, 

Among  the  dead  angels,  the  deathless 
Sandalphon  stands  listening  breathless 
To  sounds  that  ascend  from  below ; — 

From  the  spirits  on  earth  that  adore, 
From  the  souls  that  entreat  and  implore^ 
In  the  ferver  and  passion  of  prayer ; 
From  the  hearts  that  are  broken  with  losses 
And  weary  with  dragging  the  crosses 
Too  heavy  for  mortals  to  bear. 

And  he  gathers  the  prayers  as  he  stands, 
And  they  change  into  flowers  in  his  hands, 
Into  garlands  of  purple  and  red  ; 
And  beneath  the  great  arch  of  the  portal, 
Through  the  streets  of  the  City  Immortal, 
Is  wafted  the  fragrance  they  shed. 


roar.  203 

]       bat  1  legend  I  know, — 
A  -.a  phantom,  a  show, 

Of  the  ancient  Rabbinical  lore; 
;eval  tradition, 
The  beautiful  strange  superstition, 
But  haunts  me  and  holds  me  the  more 

D  I  look  from  my  window  at  night, 
And  the  welkin  above  is  all  white, 
All  throbbing  and  panting  with  si 
Among  them  majestic^  is  standing, 

'alphon,  the  angel,  expanding 
His  pinions  in  nebulous  bars. 

And  the  legend,  I  feel,  is  a  part 
Of  the  hunger  and  thirst  of  the  heart, 
The  frenzy  and  fire  of  the  brain, 
That  grasps  at  the  fruitage  forbidden, 
Tin'  golden  pomegranates  of  Eden, 
To  quiet  its  fever  and  pain. 

Longfellow. 


The  Soldier's  Reprieve. 

Arranged  by  Mr.  C.  W.  Sanders  for  the  Union  Fifth  Reader. 
••  T  thought,  Mr.  Allan,  when  I  gave  my  Bennie  to  his  country, 
that  not  a  father  in  all  this  broad  land  made  so  precious  a  gift, — no, 
not  one.     The  dear  boy  only  slept  a  minute,  just  one  little  minute, 
at  his  post ;   I  know  that  was  all,  for  Bennie  never  dozed  over  • 
How   prompt  and  reliable  he  was  I     I  know  he  only  fell 
p  one  little  second; — he  was  so  young,  and  not  strong,  that 
boy  of  mine!     Why,  he  was  as  tall  as  I,  and  only  eighteen  !  and 
him  because  he  was  found  asleep  when  doing  sen- 
ility !     Twenty-four  hours,  the  telegram  said,  —  only  twenty- 
urs.     Where  is  Bennie  now  ?'' 
'  We   will    hope  with  his    heavenly  Father,"  said    Mr.  Allan, 
soothingly. 

I  very  merciful! 
m>  I  should  be  ashamed,  father! '  Bennie  said,  '  when  I  am  a  man, 
1  this  great  right  arm,'  —  and  he  held  it  out  so 
U 


IN  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

proudly  before  me, — '  for  my  country,  when  it  needed  it  I     Palsy  it 
rather  than  keep  it  at  the  plow  I ' 

"  ■  Go,  then,  go,  my  boy/  I  Raid,  '  and  God  keep  you  I '  God  has 
kept  him,  I  think,  Mr.  Allan  1  ■  and  the  farmer  repeated  these  List 
words  slowly,  as  if,  in  spite  of  his  reason,  his  heart  doubted  them. 

"  Like  the  apple  of  his  eye,  Mr.  Owen,  doubt  it  not  I" 

Blossom  sat  near  them  listening,  with  blanched  cheek.  She  had 
not  shed  a  tear.  Her  anxiety  had  been  so  concealed  that  no  one 
ad  noticed  it.  She  had  occupied  herself  mechanically  in  the 
nousehold  cares.  Now  she  answered  a  gentle  tap  at  the  kitchen 
door,  opening  it  to  receive  from  a  neighbor's  hand  a  letter.  '  It  is 
from  him,"  was  all  she  said. 

It  was  like  a  message  from  the  dead  1  Mr.  Owen  took  the  letter 
but  could  not  break  the  envelope,  on  account  of  his  trembling 
fingers,  and  held  it  toward  Mr.  Allan,  with  the  helplessness  of  a 
child. 

The  minister  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows: — 

"Dear  Father: — When  this  reaches  you,  I  shall  be  in  eternity. 
At  first,  it  seemed  awful  to  me;  but  I  have  thought  about  it  so 
much  now,  that  it  has  no  terror.  They  say  they  will  not  bind  me, 
nor  blind  me ;  but  that  I  may  meet  my  death  like  a  man.  I  thought, 
father,  it  might  have  been  on  the  battle-field,  for  my  country,  and 
that,  when  I  fell,  it  would  be  fighting  gloriously ;  but  to  be  shot 
down  like  a  dog  for  nearly  betraying  it, — to  die  for  neglect  of  duty ! 
0,  father,  I  wonder  the  very  thought  does  not  kill  me !  But  I  shall 
not  disgrace  you.  I  am  going  to  write  you  all  about  it;  and  when 
I  am  gone,  you  may  tell  my  comrades.     I  can  not  now. 

"You  know  I  promised  Jemmie  Carr's  mother,  I  would  look 
after  her  boy ;  and,  when  he  fell  sick,  I  did  all  I  could  for  him.  He 
was  not  strong  when  he  was  ordered  back  into  the  ranks,  and  the' 
day  before  that  night,  I  carried  all  his  luggage,  besides  my  own,  on 
our  march.  Toward  night  we  went  in  on  double-quick,  and  though 
the  luggage  began  to  feel  very  heavy,  every  body  else  was  tired 
too;  and  as  for  Jemmie,  if  I  had  not  lent  him  an  arm  now  and  then, 
he  would  have  dropped  by  the  way.  I  was  all  tired  out  when  we 
came  into  camp,  and  then  it  was  Jemmie's  turn  to  be  sentry,  and  I 
would  take  his  place;  but  I  was  too  tired,  father.  I  could  not  nave 
kept  awake  if  a  gun  had  been  pointed  at  my  head ;  but  I  did  not 
know  it  until  —  well,  until  it  was  too  late." 


IJxebcises  at  Elocution,  265 

"God  be  thanked  1"  interrupted  Mr.  Owen,  reverently.  "1 
knew  Bennie  was  not  the  boy  to  sleep  carelessly  at  his  post" 

v  tell  DM  to-day  that  I  have  a  short  reprieve, — given  to  me 
by  circumstances, — '  time  to  write  to  you/  our  good  Colonel  says. 
Forgive  him,  father,  he  only  does  his  duty;  he  would  gladly  save 
me  if  he  could ;  and  do  not  lay  my  death  up  against  Jemmie.  The 
poor  boy  is  broken-hearted,  and  does  nothing  but  beg  and  entreat 
them  to  let  him  die  in  my  stead. 

'  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  mother  and  Blossom.  Comfort  them, 
father  1  Tell  them  I  die  as  a  brave  boy  should,  and  that,  when  the 
war  is  over,  they  will  not  be  ashamed  of  me,  as  they  must  be  now. 
God  help  me;  it  is  very  hard  to  bear!  Good-by,  father  I  God 
seems  near  and  dear  to  me ;  not  at  all  as  if  He  wished  me  to  perish 
porever,  but  as  if  He  felt  sorry  for  his  poor,  sinful,  broken-hearted 
child,  and  would  take  me  to  be  with  Him  and  my  Savior  in  a 
better  —  better  life." 

A  deep  sigh  burst  from  Mr.  Owen's  heart.  "Amen,"  he  said 
bolemnly,  —  M  Amen." 

"To-night,  in  the  early  twilight,  I  shall  see  the  cows  all  coming 
home  from  pasture,  and  precious  little  Blossom  stand  on  the  back 
stoop,  waiting  for  me,  —  but  I  shall  never,  never  come  I  God  bless 
you  all  I     Forgive  your  poor  Benme." 

Late  that  night  the  door  of  the  "back  stoop"  opened  softly,  and 
a  little  figure  glided  out,  and  down  the  foot-path  that  led  to  the 
mad  by  the  mill.  She  seemed  rather  flying  than  walking,  turning 
hef  head  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  looking  only  now  and 
then  to  Heaven,  and  folding  her  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  Two  hours 
later,  the  same  young  girl  stood  at  the  Mill  Depot,  watching  the 
coming  of  the  night  train;  and  the  conductor,  as  he  reached  down 
to  lift  her  into  the  car,  wondered  at  the  tear-stained  face  that  was 
upturned  toward  the  dim  lantern  he  held  in  his  hand.  A  few 
tions  and  ready  answers  told  him  all;  and  no  father  could  have 
cared  more  tenderly  for  his  only  child,  than  he  for  our  little  Blossom 

She  was  on  her  way  to  Washington,  to  ask  President  Lincoln  for 
her  brother's  life.     She  had  stolen  away,  leaving  only  a  note  to  tell 
her  father  where  and  why  she  had  gone.     She  had  brought  Bennies 
r  with   her:  no  good,  kind  heart,   like  the  Pr.  could 

refuse  to  be  melted  by  it.     The  next  morning  they  reached  New 
York,  and  the  conductor  hurried  her  on  to  Washington.     Every 


200  El  I  in  Elocution. 

minute,  now,  might  be  the  means  of  saving  her  brother's  life.    And 
so,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  Bl<  lied  the  Capital,  and 

hastened  iuiui-diately  to  the  White  II 

The  President  had  but  I  hlfimlf  to  his  morning's  task, 

i  looking  and  signing  important  papers,  when,  without  one 
word  of  announcement,  the  door  softly  opened,  and  Blossom,  with 
dnvneast  e\ «.-.-,  and  folded  hands,  stood  before  him. 

''  Well,  my  child,"  he  said  in  his  pleasant,  cheerful  tones,  "  what 
lo  you  want  so  bright  and  early  in  the  morning?" 

"Bennie's  life,  please,  sir,"  faltered  BUM 
mie?     WhoisBennie?" 

"  M  v  brother,  sir.  They  are  going  to  shoot  him  for  sleeping  at 
his  pi 

"Oh,  yes,"  and  Mr.  Lincoln  ran  his  eye  over  the  papers  before 
him.  "I  remember!  It  was  a  fatal  sleep.  You  see,  child,  it  was 
at  a  time  of  special  danger.  Thousands  of  lives  might  have  been 
lot  for  his  culpable  negligence." 

"So  my  father  said,"  replied  Blossom  gravely,  "but  poor  Bennie 
was  so  tired,  sir,  and  Jemmie  so  weak.     He  did  the  work  of  two, 
sir,  and  it  was  Jemmie's  night,  not  his;  but  Jemmie  was  too  tired, 
ilennie  never  thought  about  himself,  that  he  was  tired  too." 

"  What  is  this  you  say,  child  ?  Come  here  ;  I  do  not  understand," 
and  the  kind  man  caught  eagerly,  as  ever,  at  what  seemed  to  be  a 
justification  of  an  offense. 

Blossom  went  to  him  :  he  put  his  hand  tenderly  on  her  shoulder, 
and  turned  up  the  pale,  anxious  face  toward  his.  How  tall  he 
seemed,  and  he  wa^  President  of  the  United  States  too !  A  dim 
thought  of  this  kind  passed  for  a  moment  through  Blossom's  mind; 
but  she  told  her  simple  and  straightforward  story,  and  handed  Mr. 
Lincoln  Bennie's  letter  to  read. 

lie  read  it  carefully;  then,  taking  up  his  pen,  wrote  a  few  hasty 
lines,  and  rang  his  bell. 

Blossom  heard  this  order  given  :  "  Send  this  dispatch  at  once." 

The  President  then  turned  to  the  girl  and  said:  "Go  home,  my 
chili,  and  tell  that  father  of  yours,  who  could  approve  his  country's 
sentence,  even  when  it  took  the  life  of  a  child  like  that,  that  Abraham 
Lincoln  thinks  the  life  far  too  precious  to  be  lost.  Go  back,  or  — 
wait  until  to-morrow;  Bennie  will  need  a  change  after  he  has  so 
bravely  faced  death;  he  shall  go  with  you." 


"BxMBcmwa  in  Elocution.  207 

B  you,  sir,"  said  Blossom;  and  who  shall  doubt  that 
God  heard  and  registered  the  req 

Two  days  after  this  interview,  the  young  soldier  came  to  the 
White  House  with  his  little  sister.  lie  was  called  into  the  Pi 
dent's  private  room,  and  a  strap  fastened  "upon  the  shoulder." 
Mr.  Lincoln  then  said:  "The  soldier  that  could  carry  a  sick  com- 
rade's baggage,  and  die  for  the  act  so  uncomplainingly,  deserves 
of  his  country."  Then  Bennie  and  Blessom  took  their  way  to 
their  Green  Mountain  home.  A  crowd  gathered  at  the  Mill  Depot 
elcome  them  back;  and,  as  farmer  Owen's  hand  grasped  that 
of  his  boy,  tears  Bowed  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  was  heard  to  say 
fervently,  "Tiik  Lord  be  pkaisedI  " 

N.  T.  Observer. 


The  Cynic, 
The  Cynic  is  one  who  never  sees  a  good  quality  in  a  man,  and 
never  fails  to  see  a  bad  one.     He  is  the  human  owl,  vigilant  in 
darkness  and  blind  to  light,  mousing  for  vermin,  and  never  seeing 
noble  g 

The  Cynic  puts  all  human  actions  into  only  two  classes  —  openly 
bad,  and  secretly  bad.     All  virtue,  and  generosity,  and  disinter- 
estedness, are  merely  the  appearance  of  good,  but  selfish  at  the 
bottom.     He  holds  that  no  man  does  a  good  thing  except  for  profit, 
of  his  conversation  upon  your  feelings  is  to  chill  and  sear 
to  send  you  away  sour  and  morose. 

•id  innuendoes  fall  indiscriminately  upon 

v  thing,  like  host  upon  tl.  If  Mr.  A.  is  pronounced 

s  religious  man,  he  will  reply  :  yes,  on  Sundays.     Mr.  B.  has  just 

1  the  church:  certainly;  the  elections  are  coming  on.     The 

:.<ter  of  the  gospel  is  called  an  example  of  diligence:  it  is  his 

Sueh  a  man  is  generous:  of  other  men's  money.     This 

man  is  obliging:  to  lull  suspicion  and  cheat  you.     That  man  is 

upright:  because  he  is  gn 

Thus  his  eye  strains  out  every  good  quality,  and  takes  in  only 
the  bad.  To  him  religion  is  hypocrisy,  honesty  a  preparation  for 
fraud,  virtue  only  a  want  of  opportunity,  and  undeniable  purity, 
asceticism.  The  livelong  day  he  will  coolly  sit  with  sneering  lip, 
transfixing  every  character  that  is  presented. 


268  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

It  is  impossible  to  indulge  in  such  habitual  severity  of  opinion 
upon  our  fellow-men,  without  injuring  the  tenderness  and  delicacy 
of  our  own  feelings.  A  man  will  be  what  his  most  cherished 
feelings  are.  If  he  encourage  a  noble  generosity,  every  feeling  will 
be  enriched  by  it;  if  he  nurse  bitter  and  envenomed  thoughts,  his 
own  spirit  will  absorb  the  poison,  and  he  will  crawl  among  men  as 
a  burnished  adder,  whose  life  is  mischief,  and  whose  errand  is 
death. 

He  who  hunts  for  flowers,  will  find  flowers;  and  he  who  loves 
weeds,  nay  find  weeds. 

Let  it  be  remembered  that  no  man,  who  is  not  himself  morally 
diseased,  will  have  a  relish  for  disease  in  others,  Reject  then  the 
morbid  ambition  of  the  Cynic,  or  cease  to  call  yourself  a  man. 

//.  W.  Beecher. 


The  Drummer's  Bride. 
Hollow-eyed  and  pale  at  the  window  of  a  jail, 
Thro'  her  soft  disheveled  hair,  a  maniac  did  stare,  stare,  stare  1 
At  a  distance,  down  the  street,  making  music  with  their  feet, 
Came  the  soldiers  from  the  wars,  all  embellished  with  their  scars, 
To  the  tapping  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum ; 
To  the  pounding  and  the  sounding  of  a  drum ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum  I  drum,  drum,  drum  I 

The  woman  heaves  a  sigh,  and  a  fire  fills  her  eye. 

When  she  hears  the  distant  drum,  she  cries,  "Here  they  come! 

here  they  come ! " 
Then,  clutching  fast  the  grating,  with  eager,  nervous  waiting, 
See,  she  looks  into  the  air,  through  her  long  and  silky  hair, 
For  the  echo  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum; 
For  the  cheering  and  the  hearing  of  a  drum ! 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum!  drum,  drum,  drum  I 

Ar.d  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  comes,  more  distinct  and  clearer, 

The  rattle  of  the  drumming;  shrieks  the  woman,  "He  is  coming, 

He  is  ODming  now  to  me;  quick,  drummer,  quick,  till  I  see!" 

And  her  eye  is  glassy  bright,  while  she  beats  in  mad  delight 

To  the  echo  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum ; 

To  the  rapping,  tapping,  tapping  of  a  drum ! 

Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum  1 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  209 

the  sees  them,  in  the  street,  march  along  with  dusty  feet, 

o  looks  through  the  spaces,  gazing  madly  in  their  faces; 
And  she  reaches  out  her  hand,  screaming  wildly  to  the  band; 
Hut  her  words,  like  her  lover,  are  lost  beyond  recover, 

the  beating  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum; 

the  clanging  and  the  banging  of  a  drum  I 
Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum !  drum,  drum,  drum  1 

So  the  pageant  passes  by,  and  the  woman's  flashing  eye 
Quickly  loses  all  its  stare,  and  fills  with  a  tear,  with  a  tear; 

king  from  her  place,  with  her  hands  upon  her  face, 
4  Hear  I "  she  weeps  and  gobs  as  wild  as  a  disappointed  child ; 
Sobbing,  "He  will  never  come,  never  cornel 

ior  ever,  never,  never,  will  he  come 
With  his  drum,  with  his  drum,  with  his  drum  1  drum,  drum,  drum!" 

Still  the  drummer,  up  the  street,  beats  his  distant,  dying  beat, 

And  she  shout?,  within  her  cell,  "  Ha !  they're  marching  down  to  hell, 

And  the  devils  dance  and  wait  at  the  open  iron  gate : 

Hark!  it  is  the  dying  sound,  as  they  march  into  the  ground, 

To  the  sighing  and  the  dying  of  the  drum  I 

To  the  throbbing  and  the  sobbing  of  the  drum  1 

Of  a  drum,  of  a  drum,  of  a  drum  1  drum,  drum,  drum ! " 


The  Isle  of  Long  Ago. 
0,  a  wonderful  stream  is  the  river  Time, 

As  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  tears, 
With  a  faultless  rhythm  and  a  musical  rhyme, 
And  a  boundless  sweep  and  a  surge  sublime, 

As  it  blends  with  the  Ocean  of  Years. 

How  the  winters  are  drifting,  like  flakes  of  snow, 

And  the  summers,  like  buds  between  ; 
And  the  year  in  the  sheaf — so  they  come  and  they  go, 
On  the  river's  breast,  with  its  ebb  and  flow, 

As  it  glides  in  the  shadow  and  sheen. 

There  's  a  magical  isle  up  the  river  of  Time, 

Where  the  softest  of  airs  are  play  i- 
There  's  a  cloudless  sky  and  a  tropical  clime, 
And  a  song  as  sweet  as  a  vesper  chi 

And  the  Junes  with  the  rotes  are  st.> 


270  krcises  in  Elocution. 

And  the  name  of  that  Isle  is  the  Long  Ago, 

And  we  bury  our  treasures  there; 
There  are  brows  of  beauty  aud  bosoms  of  snow  — 
Tin-re  are  heaps  of  dust  —  but  we  loved  them  so!  — 

There  are  trinkets  and  tresses  of  hair; 

There  are  fragments  of  song  that  nobody  sings, 

And  a  part  of  an  infant's  prayer; 
There  's  a  lute  (unwept,  and  a  harp  without  strings 
There  are  broken  vows  and  pieces  of  i 

And  the  garments  that  she  used  to  wear. 

There  are  hands  that  are  waved,  when  the  fairy  shore 

By  the  mirage  is  lifted  in  air; 
And  we  sometimes  hear,  through  the  turbulent  roar, 
Sweet  voices  we  heard  in  the  days  gone  before, 

▼Then  the  wind  down  the  river  is  fair. 

0,  remembered  for  aye,  be  the  blessed  Isle, 

All  the  day  of  our  life  till  night  — 
Wh.n  the  evening  comes  with  its  beautiful  smile, 
And  our  eyes  are  closing  to  slumber  ;  while, 

May  that  "Greenwood"  of  Soul  be  in  sight! 

B.  F.  Taylor. 

Excelsior ! 
The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A  youth,  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
"Excelsior!" 

His  brow  was  sad ;  his  eye,  beneath, 
Flashed  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath ; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue, 
"  Excelsior ! " 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright : 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone ; 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan, 
"  Excelsior  1" 


ExEBOmMB  in  Elocution.  27] 

■  Try  not  the  pass  I "  the  old  man  said, 
"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead  ; 
The  roaring  torrent's  deep  and  wide  I" 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied, 
"  Excelsior ! " 

"  Oh  1  stay,"  the  maiden  said,  M  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  I  "— 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye; 
But  still  he  answered,  with  a  sigh, 
"Excelsior!" 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  good-night; — 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
"  Excelsior  1 " 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
"Excelsior!" 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half  buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
eelsior!" 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
LiMess,  but  beautiful,  he  lay; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  ! 
A  voice  fell,  like  a  falling  star  — 
"Excelsior!" 

TAtngfrUow. 


272  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Poor  Little  Jim 

The  cottage  was  a  thatched  one,  the  outside  old  and  mean, 
But  all  within  that  little  cot  was  wondrous  neat  and  clean  ; 
The  night  was  dark  and  stormy,  the  wind  was  howling  wild, 
As  a  patient  mother  sat  beside  the  death-bed  of  her  child: 
A  little  worn-out  creature,  his  once  bright  eyes  grown  dim : 
It  was  a  collier's  wife  and  child,  they  called  him  little  Jim. 

And  oh  I  to  see  the  briny  tears  fast  hurrying  down  her  cheek, 
As  she  offered  up  the  prayer,  in  thought,  she  was  afraid  to  speak, 
Lest  she  might  waken  one  she  lored  far  better  than  her  life; 
For  she  had  all  a  mother's  heart,  had  that  poor  collier's  wife. 
With  hands  uplifted,  see,  she  kneels  beside  the  sufferer's  bed, 
And  prays  that  He  would  spare  her  boy,  and  take  herself  instead. 

She  gets  her  answer  from  the  child :  soft  fall  the  words  from  him, 

"Mother,  the  angels  do  so  smile,  and  beckon  little  Jim, 

I  have  no  pain,  dear  mother,  now,  but  0 !  I  am  so  dry, 

Just  moisten  poor  Jim's  lips  again,  and,  mother,  don't  you  cry." 

With  gentle,  trembling  haste  she  held  the  liquid  to  his  lip : 

He  smiled  to  thank  her,  as  he  took  each  little,  tiny  sip. 

"  Tell  father,  when  he  comes  from  work,  I  said  good-night  to  him, 
Ami,  mother,  now  I'll  go  to  sleep."     Alas!  poor  little  Jim ! 
She  knew  that  he  was  dying;  that  the  child  she  loved  so  dear, 
Had  uttered  the  last  words  she  might  ever  hope  to  hear  * 
The  cottage  door  is  opened,  the  collier's  step  is  heard, 
The  father  and  the  mother  meet,  yet  neither  speak  a  word 

He  felt  that  all  was  over,  he  knew  his  child  was  dead, 
He  took  the  candle  in  his  hand  and  walked  toward  the  bed ; 
His  quivering  lips  gave  token  of  the  grief  he'd  fain  conceal, 
And  see,  his  wife  has  joined  him  —  the  stricken  couple  kneel : 
With  hearts  bowed  down  by  sadness,  they  humbly  ask  of  Him, 
[n  heaven  once  more  to  meet  again  their  own  poor  little  Jim. 


/  9  m  Elocition.  273 

The  Dawn  of  Redemption, 
See  them  go  forth  like  the  floods  to  the  ocean, 

Gathering  might  from  eneh  mountain  and  glen, — 
Wider  and  deeper  the  tide  of  devotion 

Rolls  up  to  God  from  the  bosoms  of  men  : 
Hear  the  great  multitude,  mingling  in  chorus, 

Groan,  as  they  gaze  from  their  crimes  to  the  sky : — 

•r    the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 
When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?" 

"Look  on  us,  wanderers,  sinful  and  lowly, 

Struggling  with  grief  and  temptation  below; 
Thine  is  the  goodness  o'er  every  thing  holy, — 

Thine  is  the  mercy  to  pity  our  woe, — 
Thine  is  the  power  to  cleanse  and  restore  us, 

Spotless  and  pure  as  the  angels  on  high : — 
Father  1  the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 

When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?" 

Gray  hair  and  golden  youth,  matron  and  maiden, 

Lovers  of  mammon,  and  followers  of  fame, 
All  with  the  same  solemn  burden  are  laden, 

Lifting  their  souls  to  that  one  mighty  name: — 
"  Wild  is  the  pathway  that  surges  before  us, 

On  the  broad  waters  the  black  shadows  lie, — 
Father  1  the  midnight  of  death  gathers  o'er  us, 

When  will  the  dawn  of  redemption  draw  nigh  ?" 

Lo !  the  vast  depths  of  futurity's  ocean 

Heave  with  Jehovah's  mysterious  breath  ; 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  the  billows'  commotion? 

walking  the  waters  of  death. 
Angels  are  mingling  with  men  in  the  chorus, — 
Rising,  li  from  earth  to  the  sky  : — 

Mows  grow  brighter  before  us, 
Heav  j  mansions  eterna'  draws  d 

Jmm  G.  Clark. 


274  Exi  \  is  Elocution. 

The  Bell. 

A  selection  of  prose  poetry,  written  during  the  Inle  war. 

The  Roman  knight  who  rode,  "all  accoutred  as  he  was,"  into  the 
gulf,  and  the   hungry  forum  closed  upon  him,  and  was  satisfied, 
n  dying,   that   great  Philistine,  Oblivion,    which, 
sooner  or  later,  will  conquer  us  all. 

We  never  thought,  when  we  used  to  read  his  story,  that  the 
grand  classic  tragedy  of  patriotic  devotion  would  be  a  thousand 
times  repeated  in  our  own  day  and  presence;  that  the  face  of  the 
neighbor,  who  had  walked  by  our  side  all  the  while,  should  be 
transfigured,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  like  the  face  of  an  angel; 
that  the  old  gods,  who  thundered  in  Greek  and  lightened  in  Latin, 
should  stand  aside  while  common  men,  of  plain  English  speech, 
whose  shoulders  we  had  laid  a  familiar  hand,  should  keep  in 
motion  the  machinery  of  the  grandest  epic  of  the  world  —  the  war 
for  the  American  Union. 

in  old  story  that  always  charmed  us  more  : 
■me  strange  land  and  time  —  for  so  the  story  runs — they 
about  to  found  a  bell  for  a  midnight  tower —  a  hollow,  starless 
heaven  of  iron.  It  should  toll  for  dead  monarchs,  "The  king  is 
and  make  glad  clamor  for  the  new  prince,  "Long  live  the 
king.'*  It  should  proclaim  so  great  a  passion  or  so  grand  a  pride 
that  either  would  be  worship,  or  wanting  these,  forever  hold  its 
peace.  Now  this  bell  was  not  to  be  dug  out  of  the  cold  mountains- 
it  was  to  be  made  of  something  that  had  been  warmed  by  a  human 
touch  and  loved  with  a  human  love;  and  so  the  people  came,  like 
pilgrims  to  a  shrine,  and  cast  their  offerings  into  the  furnace,  and 
went  away.  There  were  links  of  chains  that  bondsmen  had  worn 
bright,  and  fragments  of  swords  that  had  broken  in  heroes'  hands  ; 
there  were  crosses  and  rings  and  bracelets  of  fine  gold ;  trinkets  of 
silver  and  to)rs  of  poor  red  copper.  They  even  brought  things  that 
were  licked  up  in  an  instant  by  the  red  tongues  of  flame,  good  words 
they  had  written  and  flowers  they  had  cherished,  perishable  things 
that  could  never  be  heard  in  the  rich  tone  and  volume  of  the  bell. 
And  by  and  by,  the  bell  was  alone  in  its  chamber,  and  its  four  windows 
looked  forth  to  the  four  quarters  of  heaven.  For  many  a  day  it 
hung  dumb.  The  winds  came  and  went,  but  they  only  set  it  sigh- 
ing; the  birds  came  end  sang  under  its  eaves,  but  it  was  an  iron 


MfrauicuMa  zn  Elocuttoit.  iiM 

horizon  of  dead  melody  still :  all  the  meaner  strifes  and  passions  of 

rippled  on  below  it;  they  outgroped  the  ants  and  out  wrought 

the  bees  and  outwatched  the  shepherds  oi  .  i-ut  the  cham- 

of  the  bell  were  as  dumb  as  the  cave  of  Macpelah. 

At  last  i here  came  a  time  when  men  grew  grand  for  right  and 

truth,  and  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  over  all  the  land,  and  weal 

i  like  reapers  to  the  harvest  of  death;  looked  in  the  graves  of 

them  that  slept,  and  believed  there  was  something  grander  than 

living;  glanced  on  into  the  far  future,  and    discovered  there  was 

thing  bitterer  than  dying;  and  so,  standing  between  the  quick 

and  the  dead,  they  acquitted  themselves  like  men.     Then  the  bell 

awoke  in  its   chamber,  and  the  great  waves  of  its  music  rolled 

gloriously  out  and  broke  along  the  blue  walls  of  the  world  like  an 

anthem ;  and  every  tone  in  it  was  familiar  as  an  household  word  to 

ebody,  and  he  heard  it  and  knew  it  with  a  solemn  joy.     Poi 
into  that  fiery  heart  together,  the  humblest  gifts  were  blent  in 

kith,  and  accents,  feeble  as  a  sparrow's  r  eloquent 

1  lol  a  people's  stately  soul  heaved  on  the  wav 
ty  voice. 
auk  God,  in  this  our  day,  for  the  furnace  and  the  fire;  for 
the  offerings  of  gold,  and  the  trinkets  of  silver,  and  the  broken  links 
of  iron;  for  the  good'sword  and  the  true  word ;  for  the  great  triumph 
an  1  the  little  song.     We  thank  God  for  the  loyal  Ruths,  who  have 
taken  up  the  words  of  their  elder  sister  and  said  to  the  Naomi  of  a 
time,  '•  Where  thou  goest  I  will  go;  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people,  and  thy  God  my  God."     By  the  memory  of  the  Ramah,  into 
which  i  has  turned  the  land;  for  the  love  of  the 

now  lamenting  within  it;   for  the  honor  of  heaven  ami  the  ho] 
mankind,  let  08  who  stand  here  —  paal  and    present,  clasping  hands 

heads,  the  broad  age  dwindled  to  a  line  beneath  our 
aud  I  ith  the  grav  .  martyrs  —  let  us  declare  before 

tea — 

We  will  finish  the  work  that  the  fathers  began; 

ing, 
And  these  to  their  weeping, 
And  one  faith  and  one  flag,  for  the  Federal  Union. 

li.  F.  1\iylor. 


276  JCxercises  in  Elocution. 

Declaration  of  Independence. 

When,  in  the  course  of  human  events,  it  becomes  necessary  for 
one  people  to  dissolve  the  political  bands  which  have  con 

with  another,  and  to  assume  among  the  powers  of  the  earth 
the  separate  and  equal  station  to  which  the  laws  of  nature  and  of 
nature's  God  entitle  them,  a  decent  respect  to  the  opinions  of  man- 
kind requires  that  they  should  declare  the  causes  which  impel  them 
to  the  reparation. 

We  hold  these  truths  to  be  self-evident:  that  all  men  are  created 
equal ;  that  they  are  endowed  by  their  Creator  with  certain  unalien- 
able rights ;  that,  among  these  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pursuit  of 
happiness.  That,  to  secure  these  rights,  governments  are  instituted 
among  men,  deriving  their  just  powers  from  the  consent  of  the 
governed;  that,  whenever  any  form  of  government  becomes  des- 
tructive of  these  ends,  it  is  the  right  of  the  people  to  alter  or 
abolish  it,  and  to  institute  a  new  government,  laying  its  foundation 
on  such  principles,  and  organizing  its  powers  in  such  form,  as  to 
them  shall  seem  most  likely  to  effect  their  safety  and  happiness. 

Prudence,  indeed,  will  dictate  that  governments  long  established, 
should  not  be  changed  for  light  and  transient  causes;  and,  accord- 
ingly, all  experience  hath  shown  that  mankind  are  more  disposed 
to  suffer,  while  evils  are  sufferable,  than  to  right  themselves  by 
abolishing  the  forms  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But,  when  a 
ain  of  abuses  and  usurpations,  pursuing  invariably  the  same 
object,  evinces  a  design  to  reduce  them  under  absolute  despotism, 
it  is  their  right,  it  is  their  duty,  to  throw  off  such  government,  and 
to  provide  new  guards  for  their  future  security. 

Such  has  been  the  patient  sufferance  of  these  colonies,  and  such 
is  now  the  necessity  which  constrains  them  to  alter  their  former 
systems  of  government.  The  history  of  the  present  iring  of  Great 
Britain  is  a  history  of  repeated  injuries  and  usurpations,  all  having, 
in  direct  object,  the  establishment  of  an  absolute  tyranny  over 
these  states.  To  prove  this,  let  facts  be  submitted  to  a  candid 
world : 

He  has  refused  his  assent  to  laws  the  most  wholesome  and  neces- 
sary for  the  public  good. 

He  has  forbidden  his  governors  to  pass  laws  of  immediate  and 
pressing  importance,  unless  suspended  in  their  operation  till  his 


El  I      E8  n  /jv  Elocution  277 

assent  should  be  obtained  ;  and,  when  so  suspended,  he  has  utterly 
neglected  to  attend  to  them. 

lie  1ms  refused  to  pass  other  laws  for  the  accommodation  of 
large  districts  of  people,  unless  those  people  would  relinquish  the 
ri^'lit  of  representation  in  the  legislature ;  a  right  inestimable  to 
them,  and  formidable  to  tyrants  only. 

He  has  called  together  legislative  bodies  at  places  unusual,  uncom- 
for  table,  and  distant  from  the  depository  of  their  public  records, 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  fatiguing  them  into  compliance  with  his 
measures. 

He  has  dissolved  representative  houses  repeatedly,  for  opposing, 
with  manly  firmness,  his  invasions  on  the  rights  of  the  people. 

He  has  refused  for  a  lung  time  after  such  dissolutions  to  cause 

others  to  be  elected;  whereby  the  legislative  powers,  incapable  of 

annihilation,  have  returned  to  the  people  at  large  for  their  exercise; 

tate  remaining,  in  the  meantime,  exposed  to  all  the  danger  of 

invasion  from  without,  and  convulsions  within. 

lie  has  endeavored  to  prevent  the  population  of  these  states; 
fur  that  purpose,  obstructing  the  laws  for  naturalization  of  foreign- 
ers; refusing  to  pass  others  to  encourage  their  migration  hither, 
ami  raising  the  conditions  of  new  appropriations  of  lands. 

He  has  obstructed  the  administration  of  justice,  by  refusing  his 
assent  to  laws  for  establishing  judiciary  powers. 

He  has  made  judges  dependent  on  his  will  alone,  for  the  tenure 
of  their  offices,  and  the  amount  and  payment  of  their  salaries. 

He   has  erected  a  multitude  of   new  offices,  and   sent  hither 
s\\  arms  of  officers  to  harass  our  people  and  eat  out  their  substance. 
M  kept  among  us,  in  times  of  peace,  standing  armies  with- 
out the  consent  of  our  legislature. 

He  has  affected  to  render  the  military  independent  of,  and 
superior  to,  the  civil  power. 

He  has  combined,  with  others,  to  subject  us  to  a  jurisdiction 
go    to   our   constitution,  and  unacknowledged  by  our  laws; 
giving  his  assent  to  their  acts  of  pretended  legislation ; 

For  quartering  large  bodies  of  armed  troops  among  us ; 

Bg  them,  by  a  mock  trial,  from  punishment,  for  any 
murders  which    they   shuiiM   commit  OH    the   inhabitants  of  these 


278  Exercises  in  Elocution 

For  cutting  off  our  trade  with  all  parte  of  the  world ; 
imposing  taxes  on  us  without  our  consent ; 

For  depriving  us,  in  many  cases,  of  the  benefits  of  trial  by  jury; 

For  transporting  us   beyond   seas   to   be    tried    for   pret 
offenses ; 

For  abolishing  the  free  system  of  English  laws  in  a  neighboring 
province,  establishing  therein  an  arbitrary  government,  and  enlarg- 
ing its  boundaries,  so  as  to  render  it  at  once  an  example  and  fit 
iustrameot  for  introducing  the  same  absolute  rule  into  these 
colonies; 

taking  away  our  charters,  abolishing  our  most  valuable  laws, 
and  altering,  fundamentally,  the  powers  of  our  governm 

For  suspending  our  own   legislatures,  and  declaring  themselves 
ted  with  power  to  legislate  for  us  in  all  cases  whatsoever. 

lit-  lias  abdicated  government  here,  by  declaring  us  out  of  his 
protection  and  waging  war  against  us. 

ias  plundered  our  seas,  ravaged  our  coasts,  burnt  our  towns, 
and  destroyed  the  lives  of  our  people. 

He  is,  at  this  time,  transporting  large  armies  of  foreign  merce- 
naries to 'complete  the  works  of  death,  desolation,  and  tyranny, 
already  begun,  with  circumstances  of  cruelty  and  perfidy  scarcely 
paralleled  in  the  most  barbarous  ages,  and  totally  unworthy  the 
head  of  a  civilized  nation. 

He  has  constrained  our  fellow-citizens,  taken  captive  on  the  high 
sea-,  to  bear  arms  against  their  country,  to  become  the  executioners 
of  their  friends  and  brethren,  or  to  fall  themselves,  by  their  hands. 

He  has  excited  domestic  insurrections  amongst  us,  and  has 
endeavored  to  bring,  on  the  inhabitants  of  our  frontiers,  the  merci- 
less Indian  savages,  whose  known  rule  of  warfare  is  an  undistin- 
guished destruction  of  all  ages,  sexes,  and  conditions. 

In  every  stage  of  these  oppressions,  we  have  petitioned  for  redress 
in  the  most  humble  terms;  our  repeated  petitions  have  beer, 
answered  only  by  repeated  injury.  A  prince  whose  character  is 
thus  marked  by  every  act  which  may  define  a  tyrant,  is  unfit  to  be 
the  ruler  of  a  free  people. 

Nor  have  we  been  wanting  in  attention  to  our  British  brethren. 
We  have  warned  them,  from  time  to  time,  of  attempts  made  by 
their  legislature  to  extend  an  unwarrantable  jurisdiction  over  us. 


/;  v  i b    8  m  IN  Elocution.  279 

We  have  reminded  them  of  the  circumstances  of  our  emigration  and 
settlement  here.  We  have  appeal. d  to  their  native  justice  and 
magnanimity,  and  we  have  conjured  them,  by  the  ties  of  our  com- 
mon kindred,  to  disavow  these  usurpations,  which  would  inevitably 

nipt  our  connections  and  correspondence.  They,  too,  have 
been  deaf  to  the  voice  of  justice  and  consanguinity.  We  must, 
therefore,  acquiesce  in  the  necessity  which  denounces  our  separa- 

and  hold  them,  as  we  hold  the  rest  of  mankind,  enemies  in 
1  peace,  frieuds. 
We,    therefore,  the    representatives    of  the    United    States    of 

:ica,  in  general  congress  assembled,  appealing  to  the  Supreme 
Judge  of  the  world  for  the  rectitude  of  our  intentions,  do,  in  the 
name  and  by  the  authority  of  the  good  people  of  these  colonies, 
solemnly  publish  and  declare,  That  these  United  Colonies  are,  and 
of  right  ought  to  be,  Free  and  Independent  States ;  that  they  are 
absolved  from  all  allegiance  to  the  British  crown,  and  that  all  poli- 
tical connection  between  them  and  the  State  of  Great  Britain  is, 
and  ought  to  be,  totally  dissolved ;  and  that,  as  Free  and  Independ- 
ent States,  they  have  full  power  to  levy  war,  conclude  peace,  con- 
tract alliances,  establish  commerce,  and  to  do  all  other  acts  and 
tilings  which  Independent  States  may  of  right  do.  And  for  the 
support  of  this  declaration,  with  a  firm  reliance  on  the  protection 
of  Divine  Providence,  we  mutually  pledge  to  each  other  our  lives, 
our  fortunes,  and  our  sacred  honor. 


The  Burial  of  Moses. 

"  And  he  burled  him  In  a  valler  In  the  land  of  Moab,  over  against  Beth  \n  or 
bat  no  mau  knowctu  of  his  scpukhcr  to  this  day."— Deut.  xxxiv  :  o. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave ; 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulcher, 

And  no  man  saw  it 
For  I  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 

I  laid  the  dead  man  ti. 


280  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth  ; 
Noiselessly  as  the  day -light 

Comes  when  the  night  U  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves,  — 
So,  without  sound  of  music 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown 

The  great  procession  swept 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  grey  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie, 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight; 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking, 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot : 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not 

Lo  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed. 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  281 

In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  choir  sings  and  the  orgau  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword  ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hill  side  for  his  pail ; 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave  ; 
And  God's  own  hand  in  that  lonely  land. 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave,  — 

In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again  —  0  wondrous  thought  I  — 

Before  the  judgment  day, 
And  stand  with  glory  wrapped  around 

On  the.  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  incarnate  Son  of  God. 

O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land, 

0  dark  Beth-peor's  hill, 
Sp.-ak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  huth  his  mysteries  of  grace,  — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 

leep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well  Jfo,  AUxa* 


282  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul. 
Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame  I 
Quit,  0  quit  this  mortal  frame: 

nbling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
0  the  pain,    the  bliss  of  (lying! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life  1 

Hark  1  they  whisper  ;  angels  say, 
44  Sister  spirit,  corne  away  1  " 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite? 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirit,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes ;  it  disappears  1 
tven  opens  on  my  eyes  1  my  ears 
i  sounds  seraphic  ring; 
I.    id,  lend  your  wings!     I  mount !     I  fly  ! 
0  Grave  1  where  is  thy  victory  ? 
0  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


Alexander  Pope 


From  the  Honeymoon. 

Duke.     You  are  welcome  home. 

Jul     Home!     You  are  merry;  this  retired  spot 
Would  be  a  palace  lor  an  owl  I 

Duke.     'Tis  ours,— 

Jul     Ay,  for  the  time  we  stay  in  it. 

Duke.     By  Heaven, 
This  is  the  noble  mansion  that  I  spoke  of! 

Jul     This!  —  You  are  not  in  earnest,  though  you  bear  it 
With  such  a  sober  brow.  —  Come,  come,  you  jest. 

Duke.     Indeed  I  jest  not;  were  it  ours  in  jest, 
We  should  have  none,  wife. 

Jul     Are  you  serious,  sir? 

Duke.     I  swear,  as  I'm  your  husband,  and  no  duke. 

Jul     Nc  duke  ? 


£l  i  ^tyo.v.  283 

Z>u£e.     But  of  my  own  creation,  lady. 

Jul     Am  I  betrayed?    Nay,  do  not  play  the  fool ! 
It  la  too  keen  a  joke. 

Duke.     You'll  find  it  true. 

Jul     You  are  no  duke,  then  ? 

Duke.     None. 

Jul     Have  I  been  cozened? 
have  you  no  estate,  sir? 
No  palaces,  nor  houses? 

Duke.     None  but  this: — 
A  small  mag  dwelling,  and  in  good  repair. 

Jul.     Nor  money,  nor  effects? 

Duke.     None  that  I  know  of. 

Jul.     And  the  attendants  who  have  waited  on  us  — 

Duke.     They  were  ray  friends ;  who,  having  done  ny  business, 
Are  gone  about  their  own. 

Jul     Why,  then,  'tis  clear. — 

I  was  ever  bornl  —  What  are  you,  sir? 

Duke.  I  am  an  Jionest  man  —  that  may  content  you. 
Young,  nor  dl-favour'd  —  should  not  that  content  you  ? 
I  am  your  husband,  and  that  must  content  you. 

Jul.     I  will  go  home  I 

Duke.     You  are  at  home,  already. 

Jul     I'll  not  endure  i£  1  — But  remember  this  — 
Duke,  or  no  duke,  I'll  be  a  duchess,  sirl 

Duke.     A  duchess  I     You  shall  be  a  queen, —  to  all 
,  by  the  courtesy,  will  call  you 

Jul     A:ul  I  will  have  attendance! 

Duke.     So  you  shall, 

you  have  learned  to  wait  upon  yourself. 

Jul     To  wait  upon  myself  I     Must  I  bear  this? 
I  could  tear  out  my  eyes,  that  bade  you  wo- 
And  bite  my  tongue  in  two,  for  saying  yes  I 

And  if  you  should,  'twould  grow  again.  — 
I       nk,  to  be  an  honest  yeoman's  wife 

inch  my  would-be  duchess,  you  will  find  me). 
cut  out  i.y  nature, 

Jul     You  will  find,  then. 


284  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

That  education,  sir,  has  spoilt  me  for  it  — 
Why!  do  you  think  I'll  work? 

Duke.     I  think  'twill  happen,  wife. 

Jul     What  I     Rub  and  scrub 
Your  noble  palace  clean  ? 

Duke.    Those  taper  fingers 
Will  do  it  daintily. 

Jul     And  dress  your  victuals 
(If  there  be  any)  ?  —  Oh  !     I  could  go  mad  I 

Duke.     And  mend  my  hose,  and  darn  my  nightcaps  neatly : 
Wait,  like  an  echo,  till  you're  spoken  to  — 

Jul     Or  like  a  clock,  talk  only  once  an  hour  ? 

Duke.     Or  like  a  dial ;  for  that  quietly 
Performs  its  work,  and  never  speaks  at  all. 

Jul     To  feed  your  poultry  and  your  hogs  I  —  Oh,  monstrous  I 
And  when  I  stir  abroad,  on  great  occasions 
Carry  a  squeaking  tithe  pig  to  the  vicar ; 
Or  jolt  with  higglers'  wives  the  market  trot 
To  sell  your  eggs  and  butter  I 

Duke.     Excellent  1 
How  well  you  sum  the  duties  of  a  wife  I 
,  what  a  blessing  I  shall  have  in  you  1 

Jul     A  blessing  1 

Duke.     When  they  talk  of  you  and  me, 
Darby  and  Joan  shall  no  more  be  remembered  :— 
baU  be  happy  1 

Jul.     Shall  we? 

Duke.     Wondrous  happy ! 
Oh,  you  will  make  an  admirable  wife! 

Jul     I  will  make  a  vixen. 

Duke.     What  ? 

Jul     A  very  vixen. 

Duke.     Oh,  no  1     We'll  have  no  vixen*. 

Jul.     I'll  not  bear  it  1 
I'll  to  my  father's  I  — 

Duke.     Gently :  you  forget 
You  are  a  perfect  stranger  to  the  road. 

Jul     My  wrongs  will  find  a  way,  or  make  one. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  285 

Duke.     Softly! 
You  stir  not  hence,  except  to  take  the  air  ; 
And  then  I'll  breathe  it  with  you. 

Jul     What,  confine  me  ? 

Duke.     'T  would  be  unsafe  to  trust  you  yet  abroad. 

Jul     Am  I  a  truant  schoolboy  ? 

Duke.     Nay,  not  so ; 
But  you  must  keep  your  bounds. 

Jul.     And  if  I  break  thera 
Perhaps  you  '11  beat  me.— 

Duke.     Beat  you  1 
The  man  that  lays  his  hand  upon  a  woman, 
in  the  way  of  kindness,  is  a  wretch 
:n  't  were  gross  flattery  to  name  a  coward  — 
I  '11  talk  to  you,  lady,  but  not  beat  you. 

Jul.     Well,  if  I  may  not  travel  to  my  father 
I  may  write  to  him,  surely  1  —  And  I  will  — 
If  I  can  meet  within  your  spacious  dukedom 
Three  sucb  unhoped-for  miracles  at  once, 
As  pens,  and  ink,  and  paper. 

Duke.     You  will  find  them 
In  the  next  room.  —  A  word,  before  you  go  — 
You  are  my  wife,  by  every  tie  that's  sacred ; 
The  partner  of  my  fortune  — 

Jul.     Your  fortune  I 

Duke.     Peace !  — No  fooling,  idle  woman  ! 
Beneath  th'  attesting  eye  of  Heaven  I  've  sworn 

ve,  to  honour,  cherish,  and  protect  you. 
No  human  power  can  part  us.     What  remains,  then  ? 
To  fret,  and  worry  and  torment  each  other, 
And  give  a  keener  edge  to  our  hard  fate 
By  sharp  upbraiding*,  rod  perpetual  jars?  — 
Or,  like  a  loving  and  a  patient  pair 

:ed  from  a  dream  of  grandeur,  to  depend 
Opon  their  daily  labor  for  support). 
To  soothe  the  taste  of  fortune's  lowliness 
With  sweet  consent,  and  mutual  fond  endearment?  — 
Now  to  your  chamber  —  write  whate'er  you  please ; 


286  EXM&GiaMM  Of  ELOCUTION. 

But  pause  before  you  ^tiin  the  spotless  paper, 
With  words  that  may  inflame,  but  cannot  heal! 

./i/2.     Why,  wliat  a  patient  worm  you  take  me  for  ! 

Duke.     I  took  you  for  a  wife ;  and  ere  I  've  done, 
I  '11  know  you  for  a  good  one. 

Jul.     You  shall  know  me 
For  a  right  woman,  full  of  her  own  sex ; 
Who,  when  she  suffers  wrong,  will  speak  her  ang--r  : 
Who  feels  her  own  prerogative,  and  scorns, 
By  the  proud  reason  of  superior  man, 
To  be  taught  patience,  when  her  swelling  heai  t 
>ut  revenge!     [ 

Duke.     Why,  let  the  flood  rage  on ! 
Tiiere  is  no  tide  in  woman's  wildest  passion 
But  hath  an  ebb.  —  I  Ve  broke  the  ice,  however.  — 
Write  to  her  father !  —  She  may  write  a  folio  — 
But  if  she  send  it !  —  'T  will  divert  her  spleen,  — 
The  flow  of  ink  may  save  her  blood-letting. 
Perchance  she  may  have  fits !  —  They  are  seldom  mortal, 

\hen  the  Doctor's  sent  for. — 
Though  I  have  heard  some  husbands  say,  and  wisely, 
A  woman's  honor  is  her  safest  guard, 
Yet  there 's  some  virtue  in  a  lock  and  key. 
So,  thus  begins  our  honeymoon.  —  'T  is  well ! 
For  the  first  fortnight,  ruder  than  March  winds, 
She  '11  blow  a  hurricane.     The  next,  perhaps, 
Like  April  she  may  wear  a  changeful  face 
Of  storm  and  sunshine :  and  when  that  is  past, 
She  will  break  glorious  as  unclouded  May ; 
And  where  the  thorns  grew  bare,  the  spreading  blossoms 
M  •  t  with  no  lagging  frost  to  kill  their  sweetness. — 
Whilst  others,  for  a  month's  delirious  joy 
Buy  a  dull  age  of  penance,  we,  more  wisely, 
Taste  first  the  wholesome  bitter  of  the  cup, 
That  after  to  the  very  lees  shall  relish ; 
And  to  the  close  of  this  frail  life  prolong 
The  pure  delights  of  a  well-governed  marriage. 


John  Tbbin. 


UTION.  287 

When?  How?  and  Why? 

When  did  Johnnie  die,  birdie  — 

When  did  Johnnie  die? 
The  earth  was  aglow  with  blossoms, 

And  violets  bloomed  in  the  sky. 
The  scented  air  was  aquiver 

With  miwic  of  countless  birds ; 
Ami  the  beautiful,  sunlit  river 

Seemed  murmuring  loving  words. 
Fair  lambs,  like  breathing  lilies, 

Dotted  the  green  hillside; 
And  earth  was  filled  with  beauty, 

When  little  Johnnie  died. 

How  did  Johnnie  die,  birdie? 

How  did  Johnnie  die  ? 
His  dear,  blue  eyes,  that  widened 

From  long  gazing  on  the  &y, 
And  filled  with  Heaven's  glory, 

All  suddenly  grew  dim. 
Ah !  well  we  knew  the  nngels 
re  looking  down  on  him! 
Without  one  glance  at  us  mortals, 

Who  knelt  in  grief  by  his  side, 
But  with  hands  outstretched  to  those  angels, 

Our  little  Johnnie  died. 

Why  died  our  little  Johnnie? 

Does  birdie  ask  me  why  ? 
To  show  how  much  of  sorrow 

One  may  bear,  and  yet  not  die.  , 

To  lift  our  faint  hearts  upward 

To  the  Gracious  One  on  High, 
Who  blessed  the  little  children 

When  He  dwelt  beneath  the  sky; 
To  make  us  drop  all  earth  props 

For  the  band  of  the  Crucified, 
Ah  I  not  in  vain,  dear  bin: 

Our  little  Johnnie  died  I 
|3  Grace  Brown. 


288  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  Inchcape  Bock. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea, 
The  ship  was  still  as  she  could  be ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion , 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  surge's  swell 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay; 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  round 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring ; 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sinjr; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  u  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I  '11  plague  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock." 


flOUMXUM  in  Elocution.  289 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float 

Down  sunk  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound; 

The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around ; 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  rock, 

Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothock." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away; 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  aw:.y. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breaker's  roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore." 
"  Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  BelL" 

They  hear  no  sound ;  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock,  — 
"Oh  God!  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rockl  " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair ; 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side ; 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 


290  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear, 
One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear,  — 
A  sound,  as  if,  with  the  Inchcape  Bell, 
The  fiend  below  was  ringing  his  knell. 

Robert  Southcy 


Horatiua. 

A  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAR  OF  THE  CITY  OOCLX. 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  BummoD  his  array. 

>t  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast, 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright: 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  way9; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  dayg. 

Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 


□f  Elocution.  291 

The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

B.-fore  the  River-gate; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly  : 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town." 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 
"To  arms  I  to  arms!  Sir  Consul; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 
On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name; 
And  by  the  lea  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  tho  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  toward  him  an<!  hfe ft  <1 ; 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 


292  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge^ 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  " 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatiu-s 

The  Captain  of  the  gate: 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods. 

44  And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurse* 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  T 

"Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me?" 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius ; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he : 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 


JJxercisks  in  Elocution. 

And  out  spake  strong  Herminiua; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.** 

"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be.' 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee, 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  toward  the  bridge's  head, 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose: 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way ; 

II<rminius  smote  down  Aruns: 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
M  Lie  :  eri..d,  "  fell  pirate  I 

25* 


294  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

Prom  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  length  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
m  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  homel 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied, 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
''  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius !  " 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
11  Back,  Lartius !  back,  Herminius  1 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  I  " 

Back  darted  Spunus  Lartius ; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more. 


Kxercises  in  Elocution  296 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

I-Vll  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream: 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind 
"Down  with  him  1  "  cried  false  Sextrs, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

11  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he : 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

" Oh,  Tiber !  FatherTiber I 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  1  " 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tidt-. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lip-  '}'*"» 

d  gazing  where  he  sank; 

13* 


296  Exercises  m  Elocution. 

And  when  above  the  surges 
They  saw  his  crest  appear, 

All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

■  Curse  on  him  1 "  quoth  false  Sextu.« : 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !  N 
"  Heaven  help  him !  "  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Falls. 

To  press  his  gory  hands; 
And  now.  with  shouts  and  clappin_'. 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Oau*, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land 

That  was  of  public  right 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  rJcrht; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee : 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


M&mmcaMB  in  Elocution  2.97 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  diu, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidu- 

Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  ember*, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows; 

When  the  good  man  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume; 
When  the  good  wife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Afacaviay 


The  Song  of  the  Shirt 
With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread, 
Stitch  1  stitch  I  id 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
And  still,  with  a  voice  of  dolorou 

She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt'  " 


208  KXWRCI8B&  ix  Elocution. 

"Work!  work!  work! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 
And  work  —  work  —  work  — 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof! 
1 1  s  oh  !  to  be  a  slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 
Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work ! 

11  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  ; 
Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  1 
Seam  and  gusset  and  band, 

Band  and  gusset  and  seam, 
Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  aal 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream  f 

"  Oh,  men  with  sisters  dear ! 

Oh,  men  with  mothers  and  wives! 
It  is  not  linen  you  're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  1 
Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 
Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt ! 

u  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death, 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 
I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 
It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep ; 
0  God !  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 
And  what  are  its  wages  ?     A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags ; 


7.S7..S  /x  JZlocution.  209 

That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor  — 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 
And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  I 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 
Work  —  work  —  work 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime  I 
Band  and  gusset  and  seam 

Seam  and  gusset  and  band, 
Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed 

As  well  as  the  weary  hand ! 

"  Work  —  work  —  work 

In  the  dull  December  light; 
And  work  —  work  —  work 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ; 
While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 
As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

-  Oh  I  but  to  breathe  the  breath 

Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet ; 
With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  gra^s  beneath  my  fept ; 
For  only  one  short  hour 

To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel, 
Before  I  km*\v  the  woes  of  want 

And  tho  walk  that  costs  a  meal  I 

■  Oh !  but  for  one  short  hour  I 

A  respite  however  brief! 
No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope, 

But  only  time  for  grief  I 
A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

"Rut  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  dn 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  ! 


300  krcises  in  Elocution. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 
A  woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread ; 
Stitch!  stitch!  stitch  I 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 
And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  !  — 
8he  sang  this  ■  Song  of  the  Shirt  I  ■ 

Hood. 


Athena,  the  Queen  of  the  Air. 

We  will  take  the  bird  first  It  is  little  more  than  a  drift  of  the 
air  brought  into  form  by  plumes;  the  air  is  in  all  its  quills,  it 
breathes  through  its  whole  frame  and  flesh,  and  glows  with  air  in 
its  flying,  like  blown  flame :  it  rests  upon  the  air,  subdues  it,  sur- 
passes it,  outraces  it;  — is  the  air,  conscious  of  itself,  conquering 
itself,  ruling  itself. 

Also,  into  the  throat  of  the  bird  is  given  the  voice  of  the  air. 
All  that  in  the  wind  itself  is  weak,  wild,  useless  in  sweetness,  is 
knit  together  in  its  song.  As  we  may  imagine  the  wild  form  of  the 
cloud  closed  into  the  perfect  form  of  the  bird's  wings,  so  the  wild 
voice  of  the  cloud  into  its  ordered  and  commanded  voice;  un- 
wearied, rippling  through  the  clear  heaven  in  its  gladness,  inter- 
preting all  intense  passion  through  the  soft  spring  nights,  bursting 
into  rapture  of  acclaim  and  rapture  of  choir  at  daybreak,  or  lisping 
and  twittering  among  the  boughs  and  hedges  through  heat  of  day, 
like  little  winds  that  only  make  the  cowslip  bells  shake,  and  ruffle 
the  petals  of  the  wild  rose. 

Also,  upon  the  plumes  of  the  bird  are  put  the  colors  of  the  air : 
on  these  the  gold  of  the  cloud  that  cannot  be  gathered  by  any 
covetousness ;  the  rubies  of  the  clouds,  that  are  not  the  price  of 
Atnena,  but  art  Athena ;  the  vermilion  of  the  cloud-bar,  and  the 
flame  of  the  clo  id-crest,  and  the  snow  of  the  cloud,  and  its  shadow, 
and  the  melted  blue  of  the  deep  wells  of  the  sky  —  all  these,  seized 
oy  the  creating  spirit,  and  woven  by  Athena  herself  into  films  and 
threads  of  plume  ;  with  wave  on  wave  following  and  fading  along 
breast,  and  throat,  and  opened  wings,  infinite  as  the  dividing  of  the 


rUTION.  301 

foam  and  the  sifting  of  the  sea-sand ;  —  even  the  white  down  of 
the  cloud  seeming  to  flutter  up  between  the  stronger  plumes, 
but  t<>o  soft  for  toueh. 

And  so  the  Spirit  of  the  Air  is  put  into,  and  upon,  this  created 
form;  and  it  becomes,  through  twenty  centuries,  the  symbol  of 
divine  help,  descending,  as  the  Fire,  to  speak,  but  as  the  Dove,  to 

Mm 

Ruskin. 


The  Veto  Power. 

Mr.  President,  I  protest  against  the  right  of  any  chief  to  come 
into  either  Ilouse  of  Congress,  and  scrutinize  the  motives  of  its 
members;  to  examine  whether  a  measure  has  been  passed  with 
promptitude  or  repugnance;  and  to  pronounce  upon  the  willing- 
ness or  unwillingness  with  which  it  has  been  adopted  or  rejected. 
It  is  an  interference  in  concerns  which  partakes  of  a  domestic 
nature.  The  official  and  constitutional  relations  between  the  Presi- 
dent and  the  two  Houses  of  Congress  subsist  with  them  as  organ- 
bed  bodies.  His  action  is  confined  to  their  consummated  proceed- 
.  and  does  not  extend  to  measures  in  their  incipient  stages, 
during  their  progress  through  the  Houses,  nor  to  the  motives  by 
which  tb«y  are  actuated. 

There  are  some  parts  of  this  message  that  ought  to  excite  deep 
alarm ;  and  that  especially  in  which  the  President  announces  that 
each  public  officer  may  interpret  the  constitution  as  he  pleases, 
mguage  is,  "  Each  public  officer  who  takes  an  oath  to  support 
the  "onstituti<>n,  swears  that  he  will  support  it  as  he  understands  it, 
and  not  as  it  is  understood  by  others."  "  The  opinion  of  the  jr 
has  no  more  authority  over  Congress  than  the  opinion  of  Congress 
has  over  the  judges ;  and  on  that  point  nt  is  independ- 

ent of  both."     Now,  DOeite,   with   great  defer- 

ence   that  the  I  mistaken  the  purport  of  the  oath  to 

support  the  constitution  of  the  United  States.  No  one  swears  to 
support  it  as  he  understands  it,  but  to  support  it  simply  as  it  is  in 
truth.  All  men  are  bound  to  obey  the  l:i\\  s,  <>f  which  the  consti- 
i  is  the  supreme;  but  must  they  obey  them  as  they  are,  or  as 
thev  understand  them  ? 


302  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

If  the  obligation  of  obedience  is  limited  and  controlled  by  the 
measure  of  information ;  in  other  words,  if  the  party  is  bound  to 
obey  the  constitution  only  as  he  understands  it,  what  will  be  -he 
consequence?  The  judge  of  an  inferior  court  will  disobey  the 
mandate  of  a  superior  tribunal,  because  it  is  not  in  conformity  to 
the  constitution  as  he  understands  it;  a  custom-house  officer  will 
disobey  a  circular  from  the  treasury  department,  because  contrary 
to  the  constitution  as  he  understands  it;  an  American  minister  will 
disregard  an  instruction  from  the  President,  communicated  from 
the  department  of  state,  because  not  agreeable  to  the  constitution 
as  he  understands  it;  and  a  subordinate  officer  in  the  army  or  navy 
will  violate  the  orders  of  his  superiors,  because  they  are  not  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  constitution  as  he  understands  it 

We  shall  have  nothing  settled,  nothing  stable,  nothing  fixed. 
There  will  be  general  disorder  and  confusion  throughout  every 
branch  of  the  administration,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest  officer 
—  universal  nullification.  For,  what  is  the  doctrine  of  the  Presi- 
dent but  that  of  South  Carolina  applied  throughout  the  Union  ?  The 
President  independent  both  of  Congress  and  the  Supreme  Court  1 
Only  bound  to  execute  the  laws  of  the  one  and  the  decisions  of  the 
other  as  far  as  they  conform  to  the  constitution  of  the  United 
States  as  he  understands  it!  Then  it  should  be  the  duty  of  every 
President,  on  his  installation  into  office,  carefully  to  examine  all  the 
acts  in  the  statute  book,  approved  by  his  predecessors,  and  mark 
out  those  which  he  is  resolved  not  to  execute,  and  to  which  he 
means  to  apply  this  new  species  of  veto,  because  they  are  repug- 
nant to  the  constitution  as  he  understands  it  And,  after  the  expira- 
tion of  every  term  of  the  Supreme  Court,  he  should  send  for  the 
record  of  its  decisions,  and  discriminate  between  those  which  he 
will,  and  those  which  he  will  not,  execute,  because  they  are  or  are 
not  agreeable  to  the  constitution  as  he  understands  it. 

Mr.  President,  we  are  about  to  close  one  of  the  longest  and  most 
arduous  sessions  of  Congress  under  the  present  constitution ;  and 
when  we  return  among  our  constituents  what  account  of  the  opera- 
tions of  their  government  shall  we  be  bound  to  communicate? 
We  shall  be  compelled  to  say  that  the  Supreme  Court  is  paralyzed, 
and  the  missionaries  retained  in  prison  in  contempt  of  its  authority 
and  in  defiance  of  numerous  treaties  and  laws  of  the  United  States; 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  303 

that  the  executive,  through  the  secretary  of  the  Treasury,  6ent  to 
Congress  a  tariff  bill  which  would  have  destroyed  numerous 
branches  of  our  domestic  industry  ;  and,  to  the  final  destruction 
of  all,  that  the  veto  has  been  aoplied  to  the  bank  of  the  United 
States,  our  only  reliance  for  a  sound  and  uniform  currency;  that 
the  Senate  has  been  violently  attacked  for  the  exercise  of  a  clear 
constitutional  power ;  that  the  House  of  Representatives  have  been 
unnecessarily  assailed ;  and  that  the  President  has  promulgated  a 
rule  of  action  for  those  who  have  taken  the  oath  to  support  the 
constitution  of  the  United  States,  that  must,  if  there  be  practical 
conformity  to  it,  introduce  general  nullification  and  end  in  the 
absolute  subversion  of  the  government 

Henry  Clay. 


Marco  Bozzaris. 
At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power: 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring : 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne  —  a  king; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shad 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  he;irt  an<l  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 

On  old  PlaUea's  day ; 
And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
irm  to  strike  and  soul  to  dl 

As  quick,  as  far  as  t! 


304  JExercises  in  Elocution. 

An  hour  passed  on  —  the  Turk  awoke ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last; 
He  woke  —  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arras  I  they  come  I  the  Greek  1  the  Greek  \ 
He  woke  —  to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death  shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 
"Strike  —  till  the  last  armed  foe  expires; 
Strike  —  for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 
Strike  —  for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires, 

God,  and  your  native  land  I  " 

They  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain, 
They  conquered  —  but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal-chamber,  Death  I 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath  : 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake  6hock,  the  ocean-storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 

With  banquet-song,  and  dance  and  wine : 
And  thou  art  terrible  —  the  tear, 
The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 
And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 

Of  agony,  are  thine. 


Jfa  1  in  Elocution.  305 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  tree, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought  — 
Come,  wilh  her  laurel-leaf,  blood  bought  — 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour  —  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  a6  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese. 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris  1  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Rest  thee  —  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 
She  wore  no  funeral-weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume 
Like  torn  branch  from  death's  leafless  tree 
In  sorrow's  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb : 
But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved  and  for  a  season  gone ; 
For  thee  her  poet's  lyre  is  wreathed, 
Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birthday  bells; 
Of  thee  her  babes'  first  lisping  tells; 
For  thee  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace-couch  and  cottage- bed ; 
Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 
Gives  for  thy  sake  a  deadlier  blow ; 


806  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him  the  joy  of  her  young  yean, 
Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears: 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 
Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  check 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys, 
And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a  sigh : 

For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, 

One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Greene  ffaJlec/t. 


The  Teetotal  Mill 
Two  jolly  old  topers  sat  once  in  an  inn, 
Discussing  the  merits  of  brandy  and  gin ; 
Said  one  to  the  other,  "  I  Ml  tell  you  what,  Bill, 
I  've  been  learning  to-day  of  the  Teetotal  Mill 

"  You  must  know  that  this  comical  Mill  has  been  built 
Of  old  broken  casks,  where  the  liquor's  been  spilt; 
You  go  up  some  high  steps,  and  when  at  the  sill, 
You  've  a  paper  to  sign  at  the  Teetotal  MilL 

11  You  promise,  by  signing  this  paper  (I  think). 
That  ale,  wine  and  spirits  you  never  will  drink  , 
You  give  up  (as  they  call  it)  such  rascally  swill, 
And  then  you  go  into  the  Teetotal  Mill. 

'  There  's  a  wheel  in  this  Mill  that  they  call  'self-denial, 
They  turn  it  a  bit,  just  to  give  you  a  trial; 
Old  clothes  are  made  new,  and  if  you  've  been  ill, 
You  are  very  soon  cured  at  the  Teetotal  Mill." 

Bill  listened  and  wondered  —  at  length  he  cried  out, 
"  Why,  Tom,  if  its  true,  what  you  're  telling  about. 
What  fools  we  must  be  to  be  here  sitting  still, 
Let  us  go  and  we  '11  look  at  this  Teetotal  Mill." 


A\  /.x   Klok  'J07 

They  gazed  with  astonishment;  there  came  in  a  man, 
With  excess  and  disease  his  visage  was  wan  ; 
He  mounted  the  steps,  signed  the  pledge  with  good  will, 
And  went  for  a  turn  in  the  Teetotal  Mill. 

He  quickly  came  out,  the  picture  of  health, 
And  walked  briskly  on  the  highway  to  wealth  ; 
And,  as  onward  he  pressed,  he  shouted  out  still, 
"  Success  to  the  wheel  of  the  Teetotal  Mill." 


For  many  long  years  they  'd  been  living  in  strife ; 
He  had  beaten  her  shamefully,  swearing  he  'd  kill, 
But  his  heart  took  a  turn  in  the  Teetotal  Mill. 

And  when  he  came  out  how  altered  was  he, 
Steady,  honest,  and  sober  —  how  happy  was  she ; 
They  no  more  contend,  "No  you  shan't;  "  "  Yes  I  will." 
They  were  blessing  together  the  Teetotal  Mill. 

Next  came  a  rough  fellow,  as  grim  as  a  Turk, 
To  curse  and  to  swear  seemed  his  principal  work ; 
He  swore  that  that  morning  himself  he  would  fill, 
And  drunk  as  he  was  he  reeled  into  the  Mill. 

And  what  he  saw  there,  I  never  could  tell, 
But  his  conduct  was  changed,  and  his  language  as  well ; 
I  saw,  when  he  turned  round  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
That  he  knelt  and  thanked  God  for  the  Teetotal  MilL 

The  poor  were  made  rich,  the  weak  were  made  strong, 
The  shot  was  made  short,  and  the  purse  was  made  long  — 
These  miracles  puzzled  both  Thomas  and  Bill, 
At  length  they  went  in  for  a  turn  in  the  Mill. 

A  little  time  after,  I  heard  a  great  shout, 

I  turned  round  to  see  what  the  noise  was  about ; 

A  flag  was  conveyed  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 

And  a  crowd,  amongst  which  were  both  Thomas  and  Bill, 

Were  shouting,  "  Hurrah  for  the  Teetotal  Mill." 


308  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

"Little  Bonnie-* 

A  CHRISTMAS  8T0RT. 

I  had  told  him,  Christmas  morning, 

As  he  sat  upon  my  knee, 
Holding  fast  his  little  stockings, 

Stuffed  as  full  as  full  can  be, 
And  attentive  listening  to  me, 

With  a  face  demure  and  mild, 
That  old  Santa  Claus,  who  filled  them. 

Did  not  love  a  naughty  child. 

"  But  we'll  be  good,  won't  we,  moder," 

And  from  off  my  lap  he  slid, 
Digging  deep  among  the  goodies 

In  his  crimson  stockings  hid. 
While  I  turned  me  to  my  table, 

Where  a  tempting  goblet  stood 
Brimming  high  with  dainty  custard 

Sent  me  by  a  neighbor  good. 

But  the  kitten,  there  before  me, 

With  his  white  paw,  nothing  loth, 
Sat,  by  way  of  entertainment, 

Lapping  off  the  shining  froth  j 
And,  in  not  the  gentlest  humor 

At  the  loss  of  such  a  treat, 
I  confess  I  rather  rudely 

Thrust  him  out  into  the  street 

Then  how  Bennie's  blue  eyes  kindled ; 

Gathering  up  the  precious  store 
He  had  busily  been  pouring 

In  his  tiny  pinafore, 
With  a  generous  look  that  shamed  me 

Sprang  he  from  the  carpet  bright, 
Showing  by  his  mien  indignant, 

All  a  baby's  sense  of  right. 


IMBCI8M8  Ut  K LOCUTION.  809 

"Come  back,  II  led  he  loudly, 

As  he  held  his  apron  white, 
14  You  shall  have  my  candy  wabbit," 

But  the  door  was  fastened  tight, 
So  he  stood  abashed  and  silent, 

In  the  center  of  the  floor, 
With  defeated  look  alternate 

Bent  on  me  and  on  the  door. 

Then,  as  by  some  sudden  impulse, 

Quickly  ran  he  to  the  fire, 
And  while  eagerly  his  bright  eyes 

Watched  the  flames  grow  higher  and  higher, 
In  a  brave,  clear  key,  he  shouted, 

Like  some  lordly  little  elf, 
44  Santa  Kaus,  come  down  the  chimney, 

Make  my  Mudder  'have  herself." 

M I  will  be  a  good  girl,  Bennie," 

Said  I,  feeling  the  reproof; 
And  straightway  recalled  poor  Harney, 

Mewing  on  the  gallery  root 
Soon  the  anger  was  forgotten, 

Laughter  chased  away  the  frown, 
And  they  gamboled  'neath  the  live  oaks, 

Till  the  dusky  night  came  down, 

In  my  dim,  fire-lighted  chamber, 

Harney  purred  beneath  my  chair, 
And  my  playworn  boy  beside  me 

Knelt  to  say  his  evening  prayer ; 
44  God  bess  Fader,  God  bess  Moder, 

God  bess  Sister,"  then  a  pause, 
And  the  sweet  young  lips  devoutly 

Murmured!,  *  God  bess  Santa  Kaus." 

He  is  sleeping;  brown  and  silk.n 

Lie  the  lashes,  long  and  meek, 
Like  caressing,  clinging  shadows, 

On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek , 


310  i;r  cises  in  El  o  cution. 

And  I  bend  above  him,  weeping 

Thankful  tears.     0  undefiled  ! 
For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory, 

For  the  blessing  of  a  child. 

ie  Chambers  Ketchum. 


Lady  Clare. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  the  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 

Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn ; 
Lovers  long  betrothed  were  they  : 

They  two  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  ; 
God's  blessing  on  the  day  I 

II  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  as  broad  and  fair ; 
He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice,  the  nurse, 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee  T 

u  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  0  God  be  thanked !  "  said  Alice  the  nurse. 

"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair, 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 

And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse  ? 

Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?" 
"  As  God  's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

u  I  speak  the  truth ;  you  are  my  child." 

"  The  old  earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth  as  I  live  by  bread ; 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 


i ses  in  Elocution.  31 1 

M  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  best  muu  under  the  sun 

So  many  years  from  his  due." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurae, 

"  Hut  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald's, 

When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

u  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie: 
Pull  ofT,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 

And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

**  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  you  can  ;" 
She  said,  "  Not  so;  but  I  will  know, 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?  "  said  Alice  the  nurae, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  you  can," 
She  said,  "Not  so;  but  I  will  know, 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"Nay  now,  what  faith  ?  "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

M  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
u  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 

■  Though  I  should  die  to-night" 

**  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear ; 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee!  " 
"  0  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

41  So  strange  it  seems  to  D 

"  Yet  here 's  a  kiss  for  my  motlier  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so; 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  motlier,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 
She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare, 
SIk-  went  by  dale  and  she  went  by  down, 
a  single  r  hair 

1  1 


312  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought, 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand 
And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower, 
"  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth, 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ?  " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are ; 

I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
*  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

41  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  deed ; 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up ; 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn, 

He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood. 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  of  blood 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 


Tennyson. 


The  Child  on  the  Judgment  Seat. 

Where  hast  thou  been  toiling  all  day,  sweetheart. 
That  thy  brow  is  burdened  and  sad  ? 

The  Master's  work  may  make  weary  feet, 
But  it  leaves  the  spirit  glad. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  313 

Was  thy  garden  nipped  with  the  midnight  frost, 

Or  scorched  with  the  mid-day  glare  ? 
Were  thy  vines  laid  low,  or  thy  lilies  crushed, 

That  thy  face  is  so  full  of  care  ? 

11  No  pleasant  garden  toils  were  mine, 

I  have  sate  on  the  judgment  seat, 
Where  the  Master  sits  at  eve,  and  calls 

The  children  around  his  feet" 

How  earnest  thou  on  the  judgment  seat, 

Sweetheart,  who  set  thee  there  ? 
T  is  a  lonely  and  lofty  seat  for  thee, 

And  well  might  fill  thee  with  care. 

UT  climbed  on  the  judgment  seat  myself; 

I  have  sate  there  alone  all  day, 
For  it  grieved  me  to  see  the  children  around, 

Idling  their  life  away. 

"  They  wasted  the  Master's  precious  seed, 

They  wasted  the  precious  hours ; 
They  trained  not  the  vines,  nor  gathered  the  fruit, 

And  they  trampled  the  sweet  meek  flowers." 

And  what  didst  thou  on  the  judgment  seat, 

Sweetheart,  what  didst  thou  there  ? 
Would  the  idlers  heed  thy  childish  voice  ? 

Did  the  garden  mend  for  thy  care  ? 

"  Nay,  that  grieved  me  more ;  I  called  and  I  cried, 

But  they  left  me  there  forlorn ; 
My  voice  was  weak,  and  they  heeded  not, 

Or  they  laughed  my  words  to  scorn." 

Ah  t  the  judgment  seat  was  not  for  thee, 

The  servants  were  not  thine ; 
And  the  eyes  which  fix  the  praise  and  the  blame, 

8ee  farther  than  thine  or  mine. 


814  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

The  voice  that  shall  sound  there  at  eve,  sweetheart, 

Will  not  strive  nor  cry  to  be  heard  ; 
It  will  hush  the  earth,  and  hush  the  hearts, 

And  none  will  resist  its  word. 

*  Should  I  see  the  Master's  treasures  lost, 

The  gifts  that  should  feed  his  poor, 
And  not  lift  my  voice  (be  it  as  weak  as  it  may), 

And  not  be  grieved  sore  ?  " 

Wait  till  the  evening  falls,  sweetheart, 

Wait  till  the  evening  falls ; 
The  Master  is  near  and  knoweth  all, 

Wait  till  the  Master  calla 

But  how  fared  thy  garden  plot,  sweetheart, 

Whilst  thou  sat  on  the  judgment  seat  ? 
Who  watered  thy  roses,  and  trained  thy  vines, 

And  kept  them  from  careless  feet  ? 

"  Nay  I  that  is  saddest  of  all  to  me, 

That  is  saddest  of  all  I 
My  vines  are  trailing,  my  roses  are  parched, 

My  lilies  droop  and  fall." 

Go  back  to  thy  garden  plot,  sweetheart, 

Go  back  till  the  evening  falls, 
And  bind  thy  lilies,  and  train  thy  vines, 

Till  for  thee  the  Master  calls. 

Go  make  thy  garden  fair  as  thou  canst, 

Thou  workest  never  alone  ; 
Perchance  he  whose  plot  is  next  to  thine, 

Will  see  it,  and  mend  his  own. 

And  the  next  shall  copy  his,  sweetheart, 

Till  all  grows  fair  and  sweet ; 
And  when  the  Master  comes  at  eve, 

Happy  faces  his  coming  will  greet. 

Then  shall  thy  joy  be  full,  sweetheart, 

In  thy  garden  so  fair  to  see, 
In  the  Master's  voice  of  praise  to  all, 

In  a  look  of  his  own  for  thee. 

By  the  Author  of  the  "  Cotta  Family." 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  315 

Wanted,  a  Minister's  Wife. 

At  length  we  have  settled  a  pastor : 

I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  why 
The  people  should  grow  so  restless, 

Or  candidates  grow  so  shy  ; 
But  after  a  two  years  searching 

For  the  "  smartest "  man  in  the  land, 
In  a  fit  of  desperation 

We  took  the  nearest  at  hand. 

And  really,  he  answers  nicely 

To  u  fill  up  the  gap,"  you  know , 
To  "  run  the  machine,"  and  "  bring  up  arrears,™ 

And  make  things  generally  go; 
He  has  a  few  little  failings, 

His  sermons  are  common-place  quite, 
But  his  manner  is  very  charming, 

And  his  teeth  are  perfectly  white. 

And  so,  of  all  the  "  dear  people," 

Not  one  in  a  hundred  complains, 
For  beauty  and  grace  of  manner 

Are  so  much  better  than  brains. 
But  the  parish  have  all  concluded 

H«  needs  a  partner  for  life, 
;ne  a  gem  in  the  parlor: 

•  Wanted,  a  minister's  wife ! " 

Wanted,  a  perfect  lady, 

Delicate,  gentle,  refined. 
With  every  beauty  of  person, 

And  erery  endowment  of  mind; 
by  early  culture 

To  move  in  fashionable  life  — 
P  notice  our  advertisement: 

"  \Y 

Wanted,  a  thoroughbred  worker, 

Who  well  to  her  household  looks; 
(Shall  we  see  our  money  \v. 

By  extravagant  Irish  co< 


316  Exercises  in  Elocution, 

Who  cuts  the  daily  expenses 
With  economy  sharp  as  a  knife ; 

And  washes  and  scrubs  in  the  kitchen  : 
*'  Wanted,"  etc. 

A  very  "  domestic  person," 

To  callers  she  must  not  be  "  out," 
It  has  such  a  bad  appearance 

For  her  to  be  gadding  about : 
Only  to  visit  the  parish 

Every  year  of  her  life, 
And  attend  the  funerals  and  weddings 

"  Wanted,"  etc. 

To  conduct  the  •'  ladies'  meeting," 

T  .e  "  sewing  circle  "  attend  ; 
Ana  when  we  work  for  the  soldiers, 

Her  ready  assistance  to  lend. 
To  clothe  the  destitute  children 

When  sorrow  and  want  are  rife, 
And  look  up  Sunday-school  scholars : 

"  Wanted,"  etc 

Careful  to  entertain  strangers, 

Traveling  agents,  and  "  such," 
Of  this  kind  of  angel  visits, 

The  deacons  have  had  so  much 
As  to  prove  a  perfect  nuisance, 

And  hope  these  plagues  of  their  Kfo 
Can  soon  be  sent  to  the  parson's : 

"  Wanted,"  etc 

A  perfect  pattern  of  prudence, 

Than  all  others  spending  less, 
But  never  disgracing  the  parish 

By  looking  shabby  in  dress; 
Playing  the  organ  on  Sunday 

Would  aid  our  laudable  strife 
To  save  the  society  money : 

"  Wanted,"  etc 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  317 

And  when  we  have  found  the  person, 

We  hope,  by  working  the  two, 
To  lift  our  debt,  and  build  a  new  church, 

Then  we  shall  know  what  to  do ; 
For  they  will  be  worn  and  weary, 

And  we  '11  advertise :  "  Wanted, 

A  minister  and  his  wife  !  " 

X  T.  Z, 


Maist  Onie  Day* 
Timothy  Swan  —  aoeo  73. 

T  e  ken,  dear  bairn,  that  we  maun  part, 
When  death,  cauld  death,  8hall  bid  us  start, 
But  when  he  '11  send  his  dreadfu'  cart 

We  canna  say, 
Sa  we  Ml  be  ready  for  his  dart 

Maist  onie  Day. 

We  '11  keep  a'  right  and  gude  wi'  in, 
Our  work  will  then  be  free  fra'  sin ; 
Upright  we  '11  step  thro'  thick  and  thin, 

Straight  on  our  way  ; 
Deal  just  wi'  a  the  prize  we  '11  win 

Maist  onie  Day. 

Ye  ken  there  's  ane  wha  's  just  and  wise, 
Ha*  said  that  all  his  bairns  should  rise 
An'  sour  aboon  the  lofty  skies, 

And  there  shall 
Being  well  prepared,  we  '11  gain  the  prise, 

Maist  onie  1 1 

When  he  who  made  a'  things  just  right 
Shall  ca'  us  hence  to  realms  of  light, 
Be  it  morn,  n  or  night, 

We  will  i 

■  <nk'  our  flight 

Maist  onie  Day. 


318  /.M-jJwiSES  in  Elocution. 

Our  lamps  we  Ml  fill  brimfu'  o'  oil 

That  '8  gude  an'  pure  —  that  will  na  spoil, 

We  '11  kr.  bnrum'  a'  the  while 

To  light  our  way, 
Our  work  bein'  done  we  '11  quit  the  soil 

Maist  onie  Day. 


The  True  Teacher. 

I  hold  the  teacher's  position  second  to  none.  The  Christian 
teacher  of  a  band  of  children  combines  the  office  of  the  preacher 
and  the  parent,  and  has  more  to  do  in  shaping  the  mind  and  the 
morals  of  the  community  than  preacher  and  parent  united.  The 
teacher  who  spends  six  hours  a  day  with  my  child,  spends  three 
times  as  many  hours  as  I  do,  a;  fold  more  time  than  my 

does.  I  have  no  words  to  express  my  sense  of  the  import- 
ant •<•  of  your  office. 

Still  less  have  I  words  to  express  my  sense  of  the  importance 
of  having  that  office  filled  by  men  and  women  of  the  purest  motives, 
the  noblest  enthusiasm,  the  finest  culture,  the  broadest  charities, 
and  the  most  devoted  Christian  purpose.  Why,  sir,  a  teacher 
should  be  the  strongest  and  most  angelic  man  that  breathes.  No 
man  living  is  intrusted  with  such  precious  material.  No  man  living 
can  do  so  much  to  set  human  life  to  a  noble  tune.  No  man  living 
higher  qualifications  for  his  work.  Are  you  M  fitted  for  teach- 
ing"? I  do  not  ask  you  this  question  to  discourage  you,  but  to 
stimulate  you  to  an  effort  at  preparation  which  shall  continue  as 

long  as  you  continue  to  teach. 

Holland. 


New  Year's  Eve. 
Little  Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  wanders  up  and  down  the  street 
The  snow  is  on  her  yellow  hair,  the  frost  is  at  her  feet. 
The  rows  of  long,  dark  houses  without  look  cold  and  damp, 
By  the  straggling  of  the  moonbeam,  by  the  flicker  of  the  lamp. 
The  clouds  ride  fast  as  horses,  the  wind  is  from  the  north, 
But  no  one  cares  for  Gretchen,  and  no  one  looketh  forth. 
Within  those  dark,  damp  houses  are  merry  faces  bright, 
Aud  happy  hearts  are  watching  out  the  old  year's  latest  night 


JZXERCI8ES   IN  EL0CVT1'  319 

the  littl.5  box  of  matches  she  could  not  sell  all  day, 
And  the  thin,  thin  tettlld  mantle  the  wind  blows  every  way, 
She  clingeth  to  the  railing,  she  shivers  in  the  gloom, — 

are  parent  migly  by  firelight  in  the  room; 

And  children  with  grave  faces  are  whispering  one  another 
Of  presents  for  the  new  year,  for  father  or  for  mother. 
But  no  one  talks  to  Gretchen,  and  no  one  hears  her  speak. 
No  breath  of  little  whispers  comes  warmly  to  her  cheek. 

NV  little  arms  are  round  her:  ah  me  I  that  there  should  be, 
With  so  much  happiness  on  earth,  so  much  of  misery  I 
Sure  they  of  many  blessings  should  scatter  blessings  round, 
As  laden  boughs  in  autumn  fling  their  ripe  fruits  to  the  ground. 
And  the  best  love  man  can  offer  to  the  God  of  love,  be  sure, 
Is  kindness  to  his  little  ones,  and  bounty  to  his  poor. 

Gretchen,  little  Gretchen  goes  coldly  on  her  way; 
There  's  no  one  looked  out  on  her,  there 's  no  one  bids  her  stay. 

Her  home  is  cold  and  desolate ;  no  smile,  no  food,  no  fire, 
But  children  clamorous  for  bread,  and  an  impatient  sire. 
So  she  sits  down  in  an  angle  where  two  great  houses  meet, 
And  she  curled  up  beneath  her,  for  warmth,  her  little  feet; 
And  she  looketh  on  the  cold  wall,  and  on  the  colder  sky, 
And  wonders  if  the  little  stars  are  bright  fires  up  en  high. 
She  hears  a  clock  strike  slowly,  up  in  a  far  church  tower, 
With  such  a  sad  and  solemn  tone,  telling  the  midnight  hcur. 

And  she  remembered  her  of  tales  her  mother  used  to  tell, 
And  of  the  cradle-songs  she  sang,  when  summer's  twilight  fell ; 
Of  good  men  and  of  angels,  and  of  the  Holy  Child, 

was  cradled  in  a  manger,  when  winter  was  most  wild; 
and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  desolate  and  lone; 
And  she  thought  the  song  had  told  he  was  ever  with  his  own ; 
And  all  the  poor  and  hungry  and  forsaken  ones  are  his,  — 
"  How  good  of  Tlim  to  look  on  me  in  such  a  place  as  this?** 

-  it  grows  and  colder,  but  she  does  not  feel  it  now, 
be  pressure  at  her  heart,  and  the  weight  upon  her  brow ; 
one  little  match  on  th*«  wall  so  cold  and  bare, 
That  she  might  look  around  her,  and 
14* 


320  I:.\i:i;cisks  in  Elocutiox. 

The  single  match  has  kindled,  and  by  the  light  it  threw 
It  seemed  to  little  Gretchen  the  wall  was  rent  in  two ; 
And  she  could  see  folks  seated  at  a  table  richly  spread, 
With  heaps  of  goodly  viands,  red  wine  and  pleasant  bread 

She  could  smell  the  fragrant  savor,  she  could  hear  what  they  did 

say, 
Then  all  was  darkness  once  again,  the  match  had  burned  away. 
She  struck  another  hastily,  and  now  she  seemed  to  see 
Within  the  same  warm  chamber  a  glorious  Christmas  tree. 
The  branches  were  all  laden  with  things  that  children  prize, 
Bright  gifts  for  boy  and  maiden  —  she  saw  them  with  her  eyes. 
And  she  almost  seemed  to  touch   them,  and  to  join  the  welcome 

■boat, 
When  darkness  fell  around  her,  for  the  little  match  was  out. 

Another,  yet  another,  she  has  tried  —  they  will  not  light; 
Till  all  her  little  store  she  took,  and  struck  with  all  her  might: 
And  the  whole  miserable  place  was  lighted  with  the  glare, 
And  she  dreamed  there  stood  a  little  child  before  her  in  the  air. 
There  were  blood-drops  on  his  forehead,  a  spear-wound  in  his  side, 
And  cruel  nail-prints  in  his  feet,  and  in  his  hands  spread  wide  ; 
And  he  looked  upon  her  gently,  and  she  felt  that  he  had  known 
Pain,  hunger,  cold,  and  sorrow  —  ay,  equal  to  her  own. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  laden  board  and  to  the  Christmas  tree, 
Then  up  to  the  cold  sky,  and  said,  "  Will  Gretchen  come  with  me?  " 
The  poor  child  felt  her  pulses  fail,  she  felt  her  eyeballs  swim, 
And  a  ringing  sound  was  in  her  ears,  like  her  dead  mother's  hymn  : 
And  she   folded  both  her  thin  white  hands,  and  turned  from  that 

bright  board, 
And  from  the  golden  gifts,  and  said,  "  With  thee,  with  thee,  0  Lord  ?  " 
The  chilly  winter  morning  breaks  up  in  the  dull  skies 
On  the  city  wrapt  in  vapor,  on  the  spot  where  Gretchen  lie3. 

In  her  scant  and  tattered  garment,  with  her  back  against  the  wall, 
She  sitteth  cold  and  rigid,  she  answers  to  no  call. 
They  have  lifted  her  up  fearfully,  they  shuddered  as  they  said, 
"  It  was  a  bitter,  bitter  night !  the  child  is  frozen  dead." 


i:\ercises  in  Elocution.  321 

The  angels  sang  their  greeting  for  one  more  redeemed  from  sin; 
Men  said,  "  It  was  a  bitter  night;  would  no  one  let  her  in  ?  " 
And  they  shivered  as  they  spoke  of  her,  and  sighed.     They  could 

not  see 
How  much  of  happiness  there  was  after  that  misery. 


Gabriel  Grab. 

In  an  old  abbey  town,  down  in  this  part  of  the  country,  a  long, 
iong  while  ago  —  there  officiated  as  sexton  and  grave-digger  one 
Gabriel  Grub. 

A  little  before  twilight  one  Christmas  eve,  Gabriel  shouldered  his 
,  lighted  his  lantern,  and  betook  himself  towards  the  old 
churchyard,  for  he  had  got  a  grave  to  finish  by  next  morning;  and 
feeling  very  low,  he  thought  it  might  raise  his  spirits  perhaps,  if  he 
went  on  with  his  work  at  once.  As  he  wended  his  way  up  the 
ancient  riireet,  he  saw  the  cheerful  light  of  the  blazing  fires  gleam 
through  the  old  casements,  and  heard  the  loud  laugh  and  the  cheer- 
ful shouts  of  those  who  were  Mesmbled  around  them ;  he  marked 
the  bustling  preparations  for  next  day's  good  cheer,  and  smelt  the 
numerous  savory  odors  consequent  thereupon,  as  they  steamed  up 
from  the  kitchen  windows  in  clouds.  All  this  was  gall  and  worm- 
t lie  heart  of  Gabriel  Grub;  and  as  groups  of  children 
bounded  out  of  the  houses,  tripped  across  the  road,  and  were  met> 
before  they  could  knock  at  the  opposite  door,  by  half  a  dozen  curly- 
headed  lit  who  crowded  round  them  as  they  flocked  up 
stairs  to  spend  the  evening  in  their  Christmas  games,  Gabri.l  smiled 
grimly,  and  clutched  the  handle  of  his  spade  with  a  firmer  grasp,  as 
he  thought  of  measles,  scarlet-fever,  thrush,  whooping-cough,  and 
a  good  many  other  sou  re-  latfon  beside. 

It  th:«  happy  frame  of  mind,  Gabriel  strode  along,  returning  a 

short,  suU?n  growl  to  the  good-humoured  greetings  of  such  of  his 

bors  as  now  and  then  passed  him,   until  he  turned  into  the 

dark  lane  which  led  to  the  churchyard.     Now  he  had  been  looking 

forward  to  reaching  the  dark  lane,  I  wa<.  generally  t\ 

■  nice  gloomy,  mournful  place,  and  he  was  not  a  little  indignant 
to  hear  a  young  urchin  roaring  out  some  joflj  song  about  a  merry 
Christmas  in  this  very  sanctuary.     So  Gabriel  waited  till  the  bot 


322  L'CfSES  FN   1  o.v. 

came  up,  and  then  dodged  hire  into  a  corner,  and  rapped  him  owr 
the  head  with  his  lantern  five  or  six  times,  just  to  teach  him  to 
modulate  his  voice.  And  as  the  boy  hurried  away  with  his  hand 
Iging  quite  a  different  sort  of  tune,  Gabriel  Grub 
chuckled  very  heartily  to  himself,  and  enured  the  ehurehyard,  lock- 
ing the  door  behind  him. 

Bfl  t»ok  off  his  coat,  set  down  his  lantern,  and  getting  into  the 
,  worked  at  it  for  an  hour  or  so,  with  right  good- 
will.    But  the  earth  was  hardened  with  the  frost,  and  it  was  no 
isy  matter  to  break  it  up,  and  shovel   it  out;  and  although 
was  a  moon,  it  was  a  very  young  one,  and  shed  little  light 
upon  i he  grave,  which  was  in  t  the  church.     At  any 

other  time  these  obstacles  would  have  made  Gabriel  Grub  very 
moody  and  miserable,  but  he  was  so  well  pleased  with  having 
stopped  the  small  boy's  ringing,  that  he  took  little  heed  of  the* 

n  he  had  made  and  looked  down  into  the  grave  when  he  had 
1  work  for  the  night  with  grim  satisfaction,  murmuring,  as  he 
gathered  op  his  things — 

"  Brave  lodgings  for  one,  brave  lodgings  for  one, 
A  few  feet  of  cold  earth  when  life  is  done. 

"IIo!  ho  I  "  laughed  Gabriel  Grub,  as  he  sat  himself  down  on  a 
flat  tombstone,  which  was  a  favorite  resting-place  of  his,  and  drew 
forth  his  wicker  bottle;  "a  coffin  at  Christmas  —  a  Christmas  box. 
Hoi  ho!  hoi" 

M  Ho  1  ho !  ho  1 "  repeated  a  voice,  which  sounded  close  behind 
him. 

Gabriel  paused  in  some  alarm,  in  the  act  of  raising  the  wicker 
bottle  to  his  lips,  and  looked  round.  The  bottom  of  the  oldest 
grave  about  him  was  not  more  still  and  quiet  than  the  churchyard 
in  the  pale  moonlight  The  frost  glistened  on  the  tombstones,  and 
sparkled  like  rows  of  gems  among  the  stone  carvings  of  the  eld 
-hurch.  Not  the  faintest  rustle  broke  the  profound  tranquillity  of 
wie  solemn  scene.  Sound  itself  appeared  to  be  frozen  up, —  all  was 
so  cold  and  still. 

"  It  was  the  echoes,"  said  Gabriel  Grub,  raising  the  bottle  to  his 
lips  again. 

"  It  was  not,"  said  a  deep  voice. 


/.' \  / ;/.- (  tses  in  Elocution.  323 

Gabriel  started  up,  and  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  with  astonish- 
or;  for  hu  eyes  rested  on  ;i  form  which  made  his 

I  :un  cold. 

0  an  upright  tombstone,  close  to  him,  was  a  strange  on- 
ly figure,  whom  Gabriel  lelt  at  once  was  no  being  of  this  world, 
mg  fantastic  tegl  which  might  have  reached  the  ground,  were 
cocked  up,  and  crossed  after  a  quaint  fantastic  fashion;   his  s:i 
arms  were  bare,  and  his  hands  rested  on  his  knees.     On  his  short 
round  body  he  wore  a  close  covering,  ornamented  with  small  slashes; 
Mid  a  short  oloak  dangled  oo  his  back;  the  collar  was  cut  into  curi- 
ous peaks,  which  served  the  goblin  in  lieu  of  ruff  or  neckerchief; 
and  his  shoes  curled  up  at  the  toes  into  long  points.     On  his  head 
he  wore  a  broad-brimmed  sugar-loaf  hat,  garnished  with  a  single 
The  hat  was  covered  with  the  white  frost,  and  the  goblin 
looked  as  if  he  had  sat  on  the  same  tombstone  very  comfortably  for 
two  or  three  hundred  years.     He  was  sitting  perfectly  still;  his 
tongue  was  put  out,   as  if  in   derision;  and  he   was   grinning  at 
Gabriel  Grub  with  such  a  grin  as  only  a  goblin  could  call  up. 
"  It  was  not  the  echoes,"  said  the  goblin. 
Gabriel  Grub  was  paralysed,  and  could  make  no  reply. 
"What  do  you  do  here  on  Christmas  eve?"  said  the  goblin 
sternly. 

"I  came  to  dig  a  grave,  sir,"  stammered  Gabriel  Grub. 
"  What  man  wanders  among  graves  and  churchyards,  on  such  a 
night  as  this?"  said  the  goblin. 

"  Gabriel  Grub !  Gabriel  Grub  1  "  screamed  a  wild  chorus  of  voices 
1  the  churchyard.     Gabriel  looked  fearfully  round  — 
:ig  was  to 
''  What  have  you  got  in  that  bottle?"  said  the  goblin. 
'  II    lien  Is,  MT,"  replied   the  sexton,  trembling   more   than  I 
for  be  had  bought  it  of  the  smugglers,  and  he  thought  that  perhaps 
.-lit  be  in  the  excise  department  of  the  goblins. 
"  Who  drinks  Hollands  in  a  churchyard,  on  such  a  night  as  this?  " 
•aid  tie  gr.blin. 

UQ  Obl  Gabriel  Grub  1 "  exclaimed  the  wild  voices  again. 

The  goblin  leen-d  maliciously  at  the  terrified  sexton;  and   then, 
raising  his  voic  I  — 

"li   fair  and  lawful  M  fa 


324  El  -  ix  Elocution. 

To  this  inquiry,  thfl  invisible  chorus  replied, —  in  a  strain  that 
■OOaded  like  the  voices  of  many  choristers  singing  to  the  mighty 
swell  of*  the  old  church  organ — a  strain  that  seemed  borne  to  the 
sexton's  ears  upon  a  gentle  wind,  and  to  die  away  as  its  soft  breath 
passed  onward;  but  the  burden  of  the  reply  was  still  the  same, — 
"  Gabriel  Grub  1  Gabriel  Grub  !  " 

The  goblin  grinned  a  broader  grin  than  before,  as  he  said,  "  Well, 
Gabriel,  what  do  you  say  to  this?" 

The  sexton  gasped  for  breath. 

I  —  it's  —  very  curious,  sir,  very  curious,  and   very  pretty; 
tut  I  think  I'll  go  back  and  finish  ray  work,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  Work!  "  said  the  goblin,  "  what  work?" 

"  The  grave,  sir:  making  the  grave,"  stammered  the  sexton. 

''Oh,  the  grave,  eh?"  said  the  goblin:  "who  makes  graves  at  a 
time  when  all  other  men  are  merry,  and  takes  a  pleasure  in  it?" 

Again  the  mysterious  voices  replied,  "Gabriel  Grub!  Gabriel 
Grub!" 

u  I'm  afraid  my  friends  want  you,  Gabriel,"  "  I'm  afraid  my  frieiuls 
want  you." 

"  Under  favor,  sir,"  "  I  don't  think  they  can,  sir ;  they  don't 
know  me,  sir;  I  don't  think  the  gentlemen  have  ever  seen  me,  sir." 

"Oh,  yes  they  have."  "We  know  the  man  with  the  sulky  face 
aad  the  gmn  scowl  that  came  down  the  street  to-night,  throwing 
his  evil  looks  at  the  children,  and  grasping  his  burying- spade  the 
tighter.  We  know  the  man  that  struck  the  boy,  in  the  envious 
malice  of  his  heart,  because  the  boy  could  be  merry,  and  he  could 
not.     We  know  him  —  we  know  him." 

"I  —  I  —  am  afraid  I  must  leave  you,  sir." 

"  Leave  us !  " — "  Gabriel  Grub  going  to  leave  us.     Ho  !  ho  !  ho !  " 

As  the  goblin  laughed,  the  sexton  observed  for  one  instant  a 
brilliant  illumination  within  the  windows  of  the  church,  as  if  the 
whole  building  were  lighted  up;  it  disappeared,  the  organ  pealed 
forth  a  lively  air,  and  whole  troops  of  goblins,  the  very  counterpart 
of  the  first  one,  poured  into  the  churchyard,  and  began  playing  at 
leap-frog  with  the  tombstones,  never  stopping  for  an  instant  to  take 
breath,  but  overing  the  highest  among  them,  one  after  the  other, 
with  the  most  marvelous  dexterity.  The  first  goblin  was  a  most 
astonishing  leaper,  and  none  of  the  others  could  come  near  him. 


(VRCISES  IX  ELOCUTIQy.  325 

Ctremity  of  his  terror,  the  sexton  could  not  help  ob- 
serving, that  while  1  were  content  to  leap  over  the  com- 
mon-sized urave-totH-s,  ilie  first  one  took  the  family-vaults,  in>n 
railings  and  all,  with  as  much  ease  as  if  they  had  been  so  many 
street  posts. 

At  last,  the  game  reached  to  a  most  exciting  pitch ;  the  organ 
played  quicker  and  quicker,  and  the  goblins  leaped  faster  and  faster, 
coiliLg  themselves  up.  rolling  head  over  heels  upon  the  ground,  and 
sounding  over  the  tombstones  like  foot-balls.  The  sexton's  brain 
whirled  round  with  the  rapidity  of  the  motion  he  beheld,  and  his 
legs  reeled  beneath  him,  as  the  spirits  flew  before  his  eyes,  when 
the  goblin  king,  suddenly  darted  towards  him,  laid  his  hand  upon 
his  collar,  and  sank  with  him  through  the  earth. 

When  Gabriel  Grub  had  had  time  to  fetch  his  breath,  which  the 

rapidity  of  his  descent  had,  for  the  moment,  taken  away,  he  found 

himself  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  large  cavern,  surrounded  on  all 

i'Y  crowds  of  goblins,  ugly  and  grim.     In   the  centre  of  the 

.  on  an  elevated  seat,  was  stationed  his  friend  of  the  church- 

I;  and  close  beside  him,  stood  Gabriel  Grub  himself,  without 

»ww  of  motion. 

u  Cold,  to-night,"  said   the  king  of  the  goblins,  —  "  very  cold. 

something  warm,  here." 
At  this  command,  half  a  dozen  officious  goblins,  with  a  perpetual 
smile  upon  their  faces,  whom  Gabriel  Grub  imagined  to  be  courtiers, 
on  that  account,  hastily  disappeared,  and  presently  returned  with  a 
goblet  of  liquid  fire,  which  they  presented  to  the  king. 

"Ah!"  said  the  goblin,   whose  cheeks  and   throat  were  quite 
parent,  as  he  tossed  down  the  (lame.  "  this  warms  one  indeed; 
bring  a  bumper  of  tin  Mr.  Grub." 

It  was  in  vain   for  the  unfortunate  sexton  to  protest  that  he  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  taking    anything  warm  at  night ;   for  one  of  the 
gotlinshald  him,  while  another  poured  the  blazing  liquid  down  his 
t;   and   the   whole   assembly  screeched  with    laughter,   as  he 
l«d  and  choked,  and  wiped  away  the  tears  which  gushed  plen- 
tifully from  his  eyes,  after  swallowing  the  burning  dra 

1  now,"  said  the  king,  fantastically  poking  the  taper  corner 
of  his  sugar-loaf  hat  into  the  sexton's  eye,  and  thereby  occasioning 
him  the  mosl  t  sin,  —  "At.  ow  the  man  of  mis- 

ery and  gloom  a  few  of  the  pictures  from  our  own  great  storehouse." 


526  /•/ v  1  i:<i g WM  is   Si QV\  riox 

As  the  goblin  said  this,  a  thick  cloud,  which  obscured  the  nirlher 
end  of  the  cavern,  rolled  gradually  away,  and  disclosed,  app. 
at  a  great  a  small  and  scantily-furnished,  b>, 

clean  apartment     A  crowd  of  little  children  i   round 

a  bright  fire,  clinging  to  their  mother's  gown,  and  gamboling  round 
her  chair.  The  mother  occasionally  rose,  and  drew  aside  the  win- 
dow-curtain, as  if  to  look  for  seme  expected  object.  A  frugal  meal 
was  ready  spread  upon  the  table,  and  an  elbow-chair  was  placed 
near  the  fire.  A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door;  the  mother  opened 
it,  and  the  children  crowded  round  her,  and  clapped  their  hands  fo: 
joy,  as  their  father  entered.  He  was  wet  and  weary,  and  shook 
the  snow  from  his  garments,  as  the  children  crowded  round  him, 
and,  seizing  his  cloak,  hat,  stick  and  gloves,  with  busy  zeal,  ran 
with  them  from  the  room.  Then,  as  he  sat  down  to  his  meal  before 
the  fire,  the  children  climbed  about  his  knee,  and  the  mother  sat  by 
his  side,  and  all  seemed  happiness  and  comfort. 

But  a  change  came  upon  the  view,  almost  imperceptibly.  The 
scene  was  altered  to  a  small  bedroom,  where  the  fairest  and  y 
est  child  lay  dying;  the  roses  had  fled  from  his  check,  and  the  light 
from  his  eye;  and  even  as  the  sexton  looked  upon  him,  with  an 
interest  he  had  never  felt  or  known  before,  he  died.  His  young 
brothers  and  sisters  crowded  round  his  little  bed,  and  seized  his 
tiny  hand,  so  cold  and  heavy ;  but  they  shrank  back  from  its  touch, 
and  looked  with  awe  on  his  infant  face;  for  calm  and  tranquil  as  it 
was,  and  sleeping  in  rest  and  peace,  as  the  beautiful  child  seemed  to 
be,  they  saw  that  he  was  dead,  and  they  knew  that  he  was  an 
angel,  looking  down  upon  them,  and  blessing  them,  from  a  bright 
and  happy  heaven. 

Again  the  light  cloud  passed  across  the  picture,  and  again  the 
subject  changed.  The  father  and  mother  were  old  and  helpless 
now,  and  the  number  of  those  about  them  was  diminished  more 
than  half;  but  content  and  cheerfulness  sat  on  every  face,  and 
beamed  in  every  eye,  as  they  crowded  round  the  firesde,  and  told 
and  listened  to  old  stories  of  earlier  and  bygone  days.  Slowly  and 
peacefully  the  father  sank  into  the  grave,  and,  soon  after,  the  sharer 
of  all  his  cares  and  troubles  followed  him  to  a  place  of  rest  and 
peace.  The  few  who  yet  survived  them  knelt  by  their  tomb,  and 
watered  the  green  turf  which  covered  it  with  their  tears ;  then  rose, 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  327 

and  turned  away,  sadly  and  mournfully,  but  not  with  bitter  cries, 
-pairing  lamentations,  for  they  knew  that  they  should  one  day 

•  again ;  and  once  more  they  mixed  with  the  busy  world,  and 
tlnir  content  and  cheerfulness  were  restored.  The  cloud  settled 
upon  the  picture,  and  concealed  it  from  the  sexton's  view. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  the  goblin,  turning  his  large 
face  toward  Gabriel  Grub. 

Gabriel  murmured  out  something  about  its  being  very  pretty, 
and  looked  somewhat  ashamed,  as  the  goblin  bent  his  fiery  eyes 
upon  him. 

"  You  a  miserable  man!  "  said  the  goblin,  in  a  tone  of  excessive 
contempt.     "Youl"     He  appeared  disposed  to  add  more   hut  in- 
ition  choked  his  utterance;  so  he  lifted  up  one  of  his  very 
pliahle  leg*,  and.  flourishing  it  above  his  head  a  little,  to  insure  his 
ed  a  good  sound  kick  to  Gabriel  Grub;  immediately 
which,  all  the  goblins-in-waiting  crowded  round  the  wretched 
!i,  and  kicked  him  without  mercy,  according  to  the  established 
and  invariable  custom  of  courtiers  upon  earth,  who  kick  whom  roy- 
alty kicks,  and  hug  whom  royalty  hugs. 

"Show  him  some  more,"  said  the  king  of  the  goblins. 
At  these  words  the  cloud  was  again  dispelled,  and  a  rich  and 
beautiful  landscape  was  disclosed  to  view.     The  sun  shone  from  out 
the  clear  blue  sky,  the  water  sparkled  beneath  his  rays,  and  the 
trees  looked  greener,  and  the  flowers  more  gay,  beneath  his  cheer- 
ful influence.     The  water  rippled  on,  with  a  pleasant  sound,  the  trees 
1  in  the  light  wind   that  murmured  among  their  leaves,  the 
sang  upon  the  boughs,  and  the  lark  caroled  on  high  her  w  <1- 

•  to  the  morning.  Yes,  it  was  morning,  the  bright,  balmy 
morning  of  summer;  the  minutest  leaf,  the  smallest  blade  <>f  grass, 

ilked  forth,  elated   with   t 
and  all  was  brightness  and  splendor. 

able  man ! "  said  the  king  of  the  goblins,  in  a  more 

•nptuous  ton.-  than  before.     And  again  the  king  of  the  goblins 

gaffe  his  leg  a  ::  pin  it  descended  on  the  shoulders  of  the 

n;  and  again  the  attendant  goblins  imitated  the  example  of 

,iief. 

Many  a  time  the  t  and  came,  and  many  a  lesson   it 

taught  tc  Gabriel  Gruh,  who,  although   h  with 


328  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

pain  from  the  frequent  applications  of  the  goblin's  feet  thereunto, 
looked  on  with  an  interest  which  nothing  could  diminish.  He  saw 
that  men  who  worked  hard,  and  earned  their  scanty  bread  with 
lives  of  labor,  were  cheerful  and  happy;  and  that  to  the  most  igno- 
rant, the  sweet  face  of  nature  was  a  never-failing  source  of  cheerful- 
ness and  joy.  Above  all,  he  saw  that  men  like  himself,  who  snarled 
at  the  mirth  and  cheerfulness  of  others,  were  the  foulest  weeds  on 
the  fair  surface  of  the  earth ;  and,  setting  all  the  good  of  the  world 
•gainst  the  evil,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  a  very  decen 
and  respectable  sort  of  a- world  after  all  No  sooner  had  he  formed 
in  the  cloud  which  had  closed  over  tin-  last  picture,  seemed  to 
<>n  his  senses,  and  lull  him  to  repose.  One  by  one  the  gob- 
lins faded  from  his  sight,  and  as  the  last  one  di -appeared,  he  sank 
to  sleep. 

The  day  had  broken  when  Gabriel  Grub  awoke,  and  found  him- 
self lying  at  full  length  OB  tOO flat  gravestone  in  the  churchyard, 
with  the  wicker  bottle  lying  empty  by  his  side,  and  his  coat,  spade, 
and  lautern,  well  whitened  by  the  last  night's  frost,  scattered  on  the 
ground.  The  stone  on  which  he  had  first  seen  the  goblin  seated, 
stood  bolt  upright  before  him,  and  the  grave  at  which  he  had  worked 
the  night  before,  was  not  far  off.  At  first  he  began  to  doubt  the 
reality  of  his  adventures;  but  the  acute  pain  in  his  shoulders,  when 
he  attempted  to  rise,  assured  him  that  the  kicking  of  the  goblins 
was  certainly  not  ideal.  He  was  staggered  again,  by  observing  no 
traces  of  footsteps  in  the  snow  on  which  the  goblins  had  played  at 
leap-frog  with  the  gravestones;  but  he  speedily  accounted  for  this 
circumstance  when  he  remembered  that,  being  spirits,  they  would 
leave  no  visible  impression  behind  them.  So  Gabriel  Grub  got  on 
•t  as  well  as  he  could  for  the  pain  in  his  back;  and  brushing 
the  frost  off  his  coat,  put  it  on,  and  turned  his  face  toward  the  town. 
But  he  was  an  altered  man,  and  he  could  not  bear  the  thought 
of  returning  to  a  place  where  his  repentance  would  be  scoffed  at, 
and  his  reformation  disbelieved.  He  hesitated  for  a  few  moments; 
and  then  turned  away  to  wander  where  he  might,  and  seek  his 
bread  elsewhere. 

The  lantern,  the  spade  and  the  wicker  bottle,  were  found  that 
day  in  the  churchyard.  There  were  a  great  many  speculations  about 
the  sexton's  fate  at  first,  but  it  was  speedily  determined  that  he  had 


/'xkrcises  in  Elocution.  329 

i  carried  away  by  the  goblins;  and  there  were  not  wanting 
very  credible  witnesses  who  had  distinctly  seen  him  whisked 
through  the  air  on  the  back  of  a  chestnut  horse  blind  of  one  eye, 
with  the  hind  quarters  of  a  lion,  and  the  tail  of  a  bear.  At  length 
all  this  was  devoutly  befieied ;  and  the  new  sexton  used  to  exhibit 
to  the  curious  for  a  trifling  emolument,  a  good-sized  piece  of  the 
church  weathercock  which  had  been  accidently  kicked  off  by  the 
aforesaid  horse  in  his  aerial  flight,  and  picked  up  by  himself  in 
the  churchyard,  a  year  or  two  afterward. 

Unfortunately  these  stories  were  somewhat  disturbed  by  the  un- 
looked-for reappearance  of  Gabriel  Grub  himself,  some  ten  years 
afterward,  a  ragged,  contented,  rheumatic  old  man.  He  told  his 
story  to  the  clergyman,  and  also  to  the  mayor:  and  in  course  of 
time  it  began  to  be  received  as  a  matter  of  history,  in  which  form 
it  has  continued  down  to  this  very  day.  The  believers  in  the 
weathercock  tale,  having  misplaced  their  confidence  once,  were  not 
easily  prevailed  upon  to  part  with  it  again,  so  they  looked  as  wise 
as  they  could,  shrugged  their  shoulders,  touched  their  foreheads, 
and  murmured  something  about  Gabriel  Grub's  having  drunk  all 
the  Hollands,  and  then  fallen  asleep  on  the  flat  tombstone;  and  they 
affected  to  explain  what  he  supposed  he  had  witnessed  in  the  gob- 
lin's cavern,  by  saying  he  had  seen  the  world  and  grown  wiser. 
But  this  opinion,  which  was  by  no  means  a  popular  one  at  any 
time,  gradually  died  off;  and  be  the  matter  how  it  may,  as  Gabriel 
Grub  was  afflicted  with  rheumatism  to  the  end  of  his  days,  this 
story  has  at  least  one  moral,  if  it  teach  no  better  one  —  and  that  is, 
that  if  a  man  turns  sulky  and  drinks  at  Christmas  time,  he  may 
make  up  his  mind  to  be  not  a  bit  the  better  for  it,  let  the  spirits  be 
ever  so  good,  or  let  them  be  even  as  many  degrees  beyond  proof, 
a?  those  which  Gabriel  Grub  saw  in  the  goblin's  cavern. 

Dickem. 


Dora, 
With  lunger  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.     He  often  looked  at  them, 
And  often  thought,  "  I  Ml  make  them  man  and  wife.** 


330  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all, 
And  yearned  toward  William  ;  but  the  youth,  becpi 
He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  "  My  son, 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die ; 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  n. 
Now,  therefore,  look  to  Dora ;  she  is  well 
To  look  to  ;  thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter ;  he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands;  but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora:  take  her  for  your  v, 
For  I  have  wished  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  yea 

But  William  answered  short : 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora ;  by  my  life, 

I  will  not  marry  Dora."     Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said: 

II  You  will  not,  boy  1  you  dare  to  answer  thus  1 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 

And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  't ; 
Consider,  William  :   take  a  month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish  ; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again  1  " 

But  William  answered  madly;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.     The  more  he  looked  at  her, 
The  less  he  liked  her ;  and  his  ways  were  harsh ; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.     Then  before 
The  month  was  out,  he  left  his  father's  house,       « 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 


BXKRCTSBS   l.\    E 'LOCUTION.  331 

Thou,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  called 
His  niece  and  said :  "  My  girl.  I  love  you  well; 
But  if  you  speak  with  hirn  that  was  my  son, 
<  hr  ehange  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
u  It  can  not  be ;  my  uncle's  mind  will  change  1 " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William  ;  then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helped  him  not 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  to  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it ;  till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
I  >n  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 

And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 

Hard  things  of  Dora.     Dora  came  and  said : 

"  I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 

And  I  have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you. 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 

So  full  a  harvest:  let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat ;  that  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  ofF  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ;  for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 

Tailed  her;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 


332  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 

The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound , 

And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 

That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  on  his  hat 

To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 

Then,  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field, 

He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 

And  came  and  said,  "  Where  were  you  yesterday  ? 

Whose  child  is  that  ?     What  are  you  doing  here  ?  * 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

And  answered  softly,  "  This  is  William's  child  I  " 

"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 

Forbid  you,  Dora  ?  "     Dora  said  again  : 

44  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  gone  1  " 

And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 

I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 

To  slight  it     Well,  —  for  I  will  take  the  boy ; 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.     The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bowed  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.     She  bowed  down  her  head, 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bowed  down 
And  wept  in  secret ;  and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you ; 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 


Kxercises  in  Elocution. 

Then  answered  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself; 
And,  now,  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  harshness,  and  to  slight 

>ther;  therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home; 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back; 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William's  child  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us.' 

So  the  women  kissed 
Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch  ;  they  peeped,  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him ;  and  the  lad  stretched  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in  ;  but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her ; 
And  Allan  sat  him  down,  and  Mary  said : 

"  0  father !  —  if  you  let  me  call  you  so,  — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 
Or  William,  or  this  child;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora :  take  her  back  ;  she  loves  you  welL 
0,  sir !   when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men ;  for  I  asked  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me, — 
I  had  been  a  patient  wife:  but,  sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus ; 
'  God  bless  him  1 '  he  said,  '  and  may  he  oarer  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  through  ! '     Then  he  turned 
His  face  and  passed,  —  unhappy  that  I  am  I 
But  now,  sir,  let  me  have  ray  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory ;  and  take  Dora  back, 
let  all  this  be  as  it  was  bef- 


334  /■/. 1 1 b  i  /si:s  ix  El ocution. 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 

By  Mary.     There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs:  — 

"  I  have  been  to  blame  —  to  blame  I     I  have  killed  my  son  I 

I  have  killed  him,  —  but  I  1<  ved  him,  —  my  dear  son  1 

May  God  forgive  me  I  —  I  have  been  to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children  I  " 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man's  neck,  and  kissed  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse  ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbe  i  o'er  William's  child, 
Thinking  of  William.  —  So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together;  and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 

Thnnyson 


Revelations  of  Wall-street 

It  proved  to  be  a  night  of  adventure. 

I  had  four  avenues  to  traverse,  and  the  storm  coming  from  the 
north-east,  drove  violently  in  my  teeth.  I  buttoned  my  overcoat 
about  my  ears,  settled  my  hat  close  over  my  face,  and  presenting 
my  head  combatively  to  the  tempest,  I  pushed  on.  I  had  in  this 
way  crossed  from  the  Eighth  to  the  Sixth  Avenue,  scarcely  con- 
scious of  the  progress  made,  when  I  struck  against  an  object  in  the 
middle  of  the  side-walk,  and  was  saluted  by  the  exclamation: 
"Stop!" 

Whatever  alarm  I  experienced  was  immediately  dissipated  when 
I  raised  my  head  and  got  sight  of  the  person  who  stood  in  my 
wa&  It  was  a  girl,  bare-headed,  without  cloak  or  shawl ;  perhaps 
sixteen  years  old. 

Before  I  could  question  her,  she  exclaimed :  '  Mother  is  dying. 
Won't  you  come,  quick?' 

Without  a  word  being  said,  for  she  hurried  me  on  too  rapidly  for 
conversation,  I  followed  down  the  avenue  to  the  next  street,  and 
turning  into  it,  went  perhaps  half  a  block,  when  my  companion 
entered  a  two-story  wooden  house,  and  ran  rapidly  up  the  stairs  to 


BxMMOjama  i.\  I  ion.  335 

the  front-room.     Here  on  a  bed  lay  a  woman  moaning  and  gasping 
and  exhibiting  symptoms  resembling  epilepsy. 

'Do  n't  be  frightened,'  I  said,  'your  mother  is  not  dying  —  is  not 
going  to  die.' 

—  'Are  you  sure  of  that?'  said  the  girl. 

Something  in  the  sound  of  her  voice  strange  and  startling  —  a 
masculine  vigor,  coupled  with  an  extraordinary  maturity,  caused  me 
to  turn  and  regard  her.  Large  black  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  with 
a  firm  but  unsatisfied  look,  as  if  they  would  say:  'Do  not  amuse 
me  :   I  am  no  child.     Tell  me  the  truth.' 

To  these  imaginary  observations,  rather  than  to  the  direct  ques 
tion,  I  replied:  'I  repeat,  your  mother  is  not  dying,  but  evidently 
has  had  a  fit  of  some  kind.     Is  she  subject  to  such  attacks?' 

•Nol* 

She  looked  at  me  almost  defiantly. 

I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  say  or  do  when  I  was  relieved  by  hearing 
the  poor  woman,  who  had  regained  her  consciousness,  exclaim, 
'Matilda.' 

Matilda,  with  entire  composure,  went  to  the  bed-side  of  her 
m>tlic  r,  who  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

I  replied  that  1  believed  she  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  her 
ter  in  alarm  ran  out  for  aid  and  met  me.     'And  now  that  I 
am  here,'  I  continued,  '  I  shall  be  happy  if  I  can  do  any  thing  to 
relieve  you.' 

'Give  the  gentleman  a  chair,  my  daughter,'  said  the  sick  woman, 
for  although  I  had  shaken  the  snow  from  my  hat  and  coat,  I  was 
Still  standing. 

The  daughter  obeyed,  and  I  sat  down.     Mean  while  I  had  glanced 
about  the  room  and  taken  a  closer  look  at  its  inmates.     The  appear- 
was  that  of  biting  poverty  without  squalidness  or  misery.     The 
girl  was  wry  liand-otne  and  well  formed,  but  exhibited   in  her  de- 
meanor no  softness  —  indeed,  little  that  WSJ  feminine.     When  I»sat 
:i,  she  seated  herself  at  the  window  and  looked  out  on  the 
■*.orra.     There  was  something  in  the  expression  of  her  face  which 
brought  back  some  old  association,  but  what  I  could  not  tell.     The 
er  was  evidently  a  lady  and  possessed  of  natural  refinement 
and  delicacy.     She  explained  to  me  that  she  had  been  very  closely 
at  work  all  dav  with  the  needle,  and  as  she  was  getting  into  bed 


336  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

■he  had  been  seized  in  a  most  alarming  manner,  and  was  for  tl.e 
time  insensible.  When  she  recovered  she  saw  me  standing  ovar 
her. 

It  was  the  old  tale  of  destitution,  hard  work,  and  a  final  break- 
ing down  of  a  naturally  strong  constitution.  Yes,  the  familiar 
story,  so  much  so  that  the  novel-reader  who  has  persevered  thus 
far,  in  the  belief  that  some  extraordinary  incident  would  yet  turn 
lp,  will  exclaim :  '  Pshaw  1  how  very  stale  and  common-place  this 
neeting  a  girl  in  the  street  and  being  conducted  up  a  pair  of  stairs 
to  a  sick-room,  and  so-f«»rth  and  so- forth.'  To  be  sure,  all  this  is 
very  common  —  would  it  were  otherwise,  but  God  permits  one  class 
of  his  creatures  to  fare  sumptuously  every  day,  while  another  class 
starves,  and  the  mystery  of  this  we  may  not  undertake  to  fathom. 
The  poor  lady  seemed  so  nearly  recovered  that  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  for  her.  I  asked  if  I  could  render  her  any  assistance, 
and  if  she  was  suffering  from  any  pressing  want  She  said  she  wa# 
not,  and  regretted  that  I  should  be  taken  out  of  my  way. 

There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  stay  longer,  yet  I  felt  irresis- 
tibly impelled  to  speak  to  the  young  girl,  who  maintained  her  seat 
by  the  window,  looking  fixedly  out  of  it.  I  rose  to  depart.  Then 
I  said,  turning  to  her: 

I  You  see  I  was  right,  your  mother  will  be  quite  well  by  morning.' 
She  assented  by  a  nod. 

4  Where  were  you  going  when  I  met  you  ?'  I  asked. 

'I  thought  mother  was  dying,  and  I  started  to  find  somebody  to 
come  to  her.  I  did  not  dare  stay  to  see  her  die.'  And  she  looked 
again  with  that  expression  which  had  touched  me,  and  which  called 
up  a  strange  feeling,  like  the  memory  of  a  half-forgotten  dream. 

I I  think  I  must  call  and  see  you  to-morrow,'  I  said  to  the  lady, 
'  for  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  heavy  storm.  I  reside  not  far  from 
here,  and  I  shall  see  if  I  can't  be  of  some  use  to  you.  Pray,  may  I 
inquire  your  name?' 

'Mrs.  Hitchcock.' 

1  And  your  husband  ? 

*  Has  been  dead  for  a  long  time.' 

'  He  was ' 

'A  physician;  Dr.  Ralph  Hitchcock.' 
Who  graduated  at  Yale  College,  thirty  years  ago? 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  337 

•Yes.' 

*  Who  resided  in  Cincinnati,  and  died  there? 

4  The  same.* 

'And  you  are  Ralph  Hitchcock's  widow?' 

'lam.' 

'And  this  young  person?' 

'Hi3  daughter.     The  only  surviving  of  five  children.' 

The  room  swam  round.     Frank  Hitchcock,  my  class-mate,  my 
;-mate  in  college,  my  beloved  friend,  my  cherished  correspond- 
ent, so  long  as  he  lived,  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  his  life ;  while 
already  acquiring  fame,  and  laying  the  foundation  for  a  grand  sue- 
leeth  bad  matched  him  away. 

I  >tood  oppressed  with  these  thoughts,  not  speaking,  not  moving. 
Hitchcock  lay  waiting  calmly  for  some  explanation.  She  had 
been  too  long  schooled  by  trouble  to  become  easily  excited.  Not 
so  the  daughter;  she  rose  from  her  chair,  came  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  and  burst  into  a  hysterical  sobbing,  which  was  so  violent 
that  it  alarmed  me.  I  had  made  no  explanation,  but  my  questions 
showed  I  irat  well  acquainted  with  the  one  whose  decease  had 
caused  such  a  revolution  in  their  fortunes. 

After  a  short  pause,  I  said :  ' My  dear  lady,  I  knew  your  husband 
well :  more  than  that,  we  were  the  best  of  friends.  It  is  now  late; 
you  are  just  recovering  from  this  sudden  attack.  I  shall  be  sure  to 
see  you  to-morrow.     God  bless  you  both  1 '     And  I  came  away. 

D "sperate  as  my  own  affairs  had  been,  here  were  circumstances 
much  more  discouraging.  Reader,  if  you  yourself  are  unfortunately 
borne  down  by  the  weight  of  what  seems  a  calamitous  destiny,  cast 
about  for  some  more  afflicted,  and  take  on  you  the  office  of  aid  and 
adviser.  Assume  a  part  of  their  burdens,  it  will  help  to  lighten  your 
own.  You  will  be  surprised  what  strength  you  will  gain  beside 
-o.  For  thus  marvelously  has  God  established  the  paradox 
'There  is  that  raaketh  himself  poor,  yet  hath  great  riches.' 

Richard  B.  Kimball. 


338  J:\ercises  in  Elocution. 

The  Bomance  and  the  Beality  of  the  Law. 

Among  the  learned  or  liberal  professions,  the  one  that  ofienest 
tempts  and  dazzles  the  youthful  mind  is  that  of  the  law. 

This  fact  has  its  reason,  and  is  susceptible  of  explanation. 

The  profession  of  the  law  is  venerable  for  iu  antiquity,  rich  in 
the  illustrious  names  which  adorn  its  history,  and  unequaled  for  the 
aggregate  of  talent  and  eloquence  which  have  in  all  ages  character- 
ised its  leading  members. 

Far  back  in  the  dim  vista  of  the  past,  the  fancy  of  the  legal  en- 
thusiast may  behold  the  commanding  form  of  the  inspired  Cicero, 
his  toga  falling  gracefully  about  him,  his  eye  glowing  with  pathetic 
emotion,  as  he  stands  there  on  the  Roman  forum  pleading  the  cause 
of  his  early  friend  and  tutor,  the  poet  Archius. 

It  must  be  with  no  small  degree  of  pride  that  the  advocate  thus 
traces  his  professional  lineage  back  to  the  greatest  orator  of  ancient 
tiraea 

There  is  a  kind  of  ancestral  congratulation  that  he,  too,  like 
Cicero,  is  empowered  to  use  his  country's  laws,  when  occasion  re- 
quires, to  defend  the  innocent  and  relieve  the  oppressed. 

Then  again  there  is  romance  connected  with  the  practice  of  the 
law.  Should  every  lawyer  of  long  experience  keep  a  journal, 
wherein  he  might  detail  the  stories  of  all  his  clients,  their  strange 
grievances,  their  complicated  affairs,  and  confidential  disclosures,  it 
would  form  a  book  only  surpassed  for  variety  and  novelty  by  the 
famous  '  Arabian  Nights.' 

The  amount  of  heart-history  with  which  he  becomes  acquainted 
seems  strangely  in  contrast  with  the  lack  of  sentiment  for  which 
his  character  is  so  generally  noted.  He  becomes  familiar  with 
domestic  difficulties,  disappointed  affections,  atrocious  crimes,  and 
daring  schemes;  and  finds  out  more  of  the  inner  life  of  humanity 
than  can  be  discovered  from  any  other  stand-point  in  society.  His 
council-room  is  a  kind  of  secular  confessional,  where  clients  reveal 
reluctant  secrets,  and  tell  of  private  wrongs.  To  him,  what  the 
world  is  accustomed  to  regard  as  fiction,  constitutes  the  common- 
place fa?t«?  of  his  legal  practice. 

But  in  ou;  country  the  more  seductive  phrase  of  the  law  is  this, 
it  has  ever  been  the  natural  avenue  to  political  preferment  and  judi- 
cial honors.     Hence  it  is  that  young  men  of  fine  abilities  and  am- 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  839 

bitious  of  distinction,  so  frequently  choose  this  profession  as  the 
proper  field  whereon  to  meet  4  the  high  endeavor  and  the  glad  suc- 
cess.' And  perhaps  it  is  sometimes  a  misfortune  that  such  a  reason 
:es  them  rather  than  a  sense  of  anj'  peculiar  fitness  for  the  call- 
ing which  they  so  hastily  espouse.     But  of  that  hereafter. 

Lawyers,  as  a  class,  are,  or  were,  much  respected  and  revered, 
exerting  as  they  do  a  very  controlling  influence  over  society  and 
affairs.  I  know  full  well  that  novels  and  plays  abound  in  a  certain 
•typed  character  called  an  attorney,  who  is  made  to  do  all  the 
dirty  work  of  the  plot  or  story.  He  is  represented  usually  as  a 
cadaverous-looking  individual,  with  a  swinish  propensity  to  thrust 
his  nose  into  every  one's  business,  who  is  willing  to  damn  his 
soul  for  a  fee,  and  whose  heart  is  devoid  of  all  sympathy  for 
Buffering  or  distress.  The  worst  of  all  these  human  fiends  is  Uriah 
,  whose  freckled,  hairy  hand,  with  its  cold  clammy  touch,  so 
often  makes  the  reader  shudder  as  he  turns  the  pages  of  '  David 
Copperfield.'  Then  there  is  Oily  Gammon,  who  figures  in  '  Ten 
Thousand  a  Year,'  and  whose  qualities  are  very  plainly  suggested 
by  his  name.  And  among  the  more  recent  types  of  this  character, 
we  have  the  '  Marks '  of  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  who,  when  asked 
to  do  a  small  favor,  or  to  perform  a  common  act  of  politeness  with- 
out the  tender  of  a  fee,  rolls  out  his  eyes  in  wonderment,  and  to 
ex  plain  his  refusal  drawls  out:  lOh/  I'm  a  lawyer/1  The  muses 
too  have  conspired  against  these  poor,  persecuted  fellows;  and  there 
is  extant  a  little  poem,  called  'Law  versus  Saw,'  in  which  a  very 
invidious  comparison  is  sought  to  be  made  between  a  lawyer  and 
that  small  operator  in  the  lumber  business  commonly  known  as  a 
sawyer.  In  usefulness  and  dignity  the  poet  confers  the  palm  on  the 
vocation  of  the  latter.  The  last  verse  sums  up  the  whole  matte) 
thus: 

4  This  conclusion  then  I  draw. 
That  no  ezerciae  of  Jaw, 
Twisting  India-rubber  law, 

I»  as  good 
As  the  exerclee  of  paw 
On  the  handle  of  a  saw. 
Sawing  wood.* 

Hut  these  pictures  of  law-attorneys,  found  so  frequently  in  light 
literature,  furnish  the  unknowing  with  a  very  erroneous  estimate  of 
verage  character  of  the  legal  profession.     These  seeming  caric- 
atures have  had,  and  still  have,  originals  in  fact,  but  they  are  as 


340  Exercises  ix  Elocution. 

much  hated  and  despised  by  the  more  respectable  members  cf  the 
bar  as  by  the  world  at  lar<_re.  Indeed,  to  a  person  of  experience  in 
life,  there  need  be  no  argument  to  prove  that  lawyers  as  a  body  are 
quite  as  honorable,  intelligent,  liberal  and  public-spirited  as  the 
same  number  of  men  selected  from  any  class  which  has  a  distinctive 
wcistrnce. 

L.  J.  Bigelow, 


Grannie's  Trnjt 
Dear  Grannie  is  with  us  no  longer; 

Her  hair,  that  was  white  as  the  snow 
Was  parted  one  morning  forever, 

On  her  head  lying  soft  and  low ; 
Iler  hands  left  the  Bible  wide  open, 

To  tell  us  the  road  she  had  trod, 
With  waymarks  like  footsteps  to  tell  us 

The  path  she  had  gone  up  to  God. 

No  wonderful  learning  had  Grannie ; 

She  knew  not  the  path  of  the  stars, 
Nor  aught  of  the  comet's  wide  cycle, 

JNor  of  Nebula's  dim  cloudy  bars; 
But  she  knew  how  the  wise  men  adoring, 

Saw  a  star  in  the  East  long  ago ; 
She  knew  how  the  first  Christmas  anthems 

Came  down  to  the  shepherds  below. 

She  had  her  own  test,  I  remember, 

For  the  people  whoe'er  they  might  be. 
When  we  spoke  of  the  strangers  about  us 

But  lately  come  over  the  sea; 
Of  "Laura,"  and  "  Lizzie,"  and  "Jamie," 

And  stately  old  "  Essellby  Oakes," 
She  listened  and  whispered  it  softly, 

"  My  dear,  are  these  friends  meetin'-folks  ?  " 

When  our  John  went  away  to  the  city 
With  patrons,  whom  all  the  world  knew 

To  be  sober  and  honest  great  merchants, 
For  Grannie  this  all  would  not  do ; 


gmoiama  or  Elocution.  341 

Till  she  pulled  at  John's  sleeve  in  the  twilight, 

To  be  certain,  before  he  had  gone; 
And  he  smiled  as  he  heard  the  old  question, 

14  Are  you  sure  they  are  rneetin'-folks,  John  ?  ' 

When  Minnie  came  home  from  the  city, 

And  left  heart  and  happiness  there, 
I  saw  her  close  kneeling  by  Grannie, 

With  her  dear  wrinkled  hands  on  her  hair ; 
And  amid  the  low  sobs  of  the  maiden, 

Came  softly  the  tremulous  tone, 
"He  wasn't  like  meetin'-folks,  Minnie; 

Dear  child,  you  are  better  alone." 

And  now  from  the  corner  we  miss  her, 

And  hear  that  reminder  no  more ; 
But  still,  unforgotten,  the  echo 

Comes  back  from  that  far-away  shore ; 
Till  Sophistry  slinks  in  the  corner, 

Though  Charity  sweet  has  her  due, 
Yet  we  feel,  if  we  want  to  meet  Grannie, 

'Twere  best  to  be  meetin'  -folks  too. 


The  Telegram. 
Dead  1  did  you  say  ?  he  1  dead  in  his  prime ! 

Son  of  my  mother  1  my  brother !  my  friend  I 
While  the  horologue  points  to  the  noon  of  his  time, 
Has  his  sun  set  in  darkness?  is  all  at  an  end? 
("  By  a  sudden  accident.") 

Dead  I  it  is  not,  it  cannot,  it  must  not  be  true  I 
Let  me  read  the  dire  words  for  myself,  if  I  can ; 

Relentless,  hard,  cold,  they  rise  on  my  view  — 
They  blind  me  1  how  did  you  say  that  they  ran  ? 
(•lie  was  mortally  injured") 

Dead !  around  me  I  hear  the  singing  of  birds 

And  the  breath  of  June  roses  comes  in  at  the  pane, 

Nothing  —  :  changed  by  those  terrible  words, 

They  cannot  he  true  I  let  me  Ri  them  again; 
("  And  died  yesterday.") 


542  BjLMBViaMM  ix  ELOCUTION. 

Dead  !  a  letter  but  yesterday  told  of  his  love! 

Another  to-morrow  the  tale  will  repeat; 
Outstripped  by  this  thunderbolt  Dong  from  above, 

Scathing  my  heart  as  it  falls  at  my  feet ! 
("  Funeral  to-morrow") 

Oh,  terrible  Telegraph  !  srhtle  and  still  I 

Darting  thy  lightnings  with  pitiless  haste! 
No  kind  warning  thunder  —  no  storm-boding  thrill  — 
But  one  fierce  deadly  flash,  and  the  heart  lieth  waste ! 
{u  Inform  his  friends.") 

Sarah  B.  Henshaw. 

ThQ  Swan's  Nest 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone 

Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow. 
By  a  stream-side,  on  the  grass  j 
And  the  trees  are  showering  down 

Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow, 
On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 

She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by  ; 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 

In  the  shallow  water's  flow  ;  — 

Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 
While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone; 

And  the  smile  she  softly  uses, 

Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech  ; 

While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done, — 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses, 

For  her  future  within  her  reach. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooseth  —  "I  will  have  a  lover, 

Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds ! 

He  shall  love  me  without  guile; 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 

The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


SxaxaMMA  in  Elocution.  343 

M  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan, 
Ami  the  lover  shall  be  noble, 

With  an  eye  that  takes  the  brenth; 

And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 

As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 

*  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure, 

And  the  mane  shall  swim  the  wind : 

And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  Btth  onward  and  keep  measure, 

Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 

When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 

He  will  say,  '  0  Love,  thine  evs 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in  ; 

And  I  kneel  here  for  thy  grace.' 

14  Then,  ay  I  then  he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him, 

Which  shall  seem  to  understand  — 

Till  I  answer,  '  Rise  and  go  I 
For  the  world  must  love  and  fear  him 

Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand.' 

44  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 

With  Ayes  I  must  not  say  — 

Nathless  maiden  brave,  4  Farewell,' 
1  will  utter  and  dissemble  — 

4  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day.' 

44  Then  he  Ml  ride  among  the  hill? 
To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong : 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 

Ami  to  empty  the  \>\ 

•h  the  wieked  bear  along. 


344  Exercisks  ix  Elocution. 

"  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim  the  stream  and  climb  the  mountain 
And  kneel  down  beside  my  feet  — 
'  Lo  1  my  master  sends  this  gage, 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting! 

What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it?' 

"  And  the  first  time  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon  — 
And  the  second  time  a  glove: 
But  the  third  time  —  I  may  bend 
From  my  pride,  and  answer  —  '  Pardon  • 
If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

"  Then  the  young  foot-page  will  run  — 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 

Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee : 

1 1  am  a  duke's  eldest  son  I 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master,  — 

But,  O  Love,  I  love  but  thee! ' 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then  ;  and  lead  me  as  a  lover, 

Through  the  crowds  that  praise  his  deeds 
And,  when  soul-tied  b;t  one  troth, 
Unto  him  I  will  discover 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds," 

Little  Ellie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe  — 
And  went  homeward,  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

What  more  eggs  were  witl  the  two. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  oopse 
Winding  by  the  stream,  light-hearted, 
Where  the  ozier  pathway  leads  — 
Past  the  boughs  she  stoops —  and  stops  1 
Lo  1  the  wild  swan  had  deserted,  — 
And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds. 


/.  v  |  ft  IB  I  S  IN  ELOCUTI  346 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow : 
I    -he  found  the  lover  ever, 

With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 

Sooth  I  know  not!  but  I  know- 
She  could  never  show  him  —  never, 

That  swan's  nest  among  the  iv 

Mrs.  Drowning. 

The  Main  Track,  or  a  Leap  for  Life, 
Old  Ironsides  at  anchor  lay, 

In  the  harbor  of  Mahon  ; 
A.  dead  calm  rested  on  the  bay, 

The  waves  to  sleep  had  gone ; 
When  little  Hal,  the  captain's  son, 

A  lad  both  brave  and  good, 
In  sport,  up  shroud  and  rigging  ran, 

And  on  the  main-truck  stood  1 

A  shudder  shot  through  every  vein, 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  high  1 
There  stood  the  boy,  with  dizzy  brain, 

Between  the  sea  and  sky  ; 
No  hold  had  he  above,  below, 

Alone  he  stood  in  air ; 
To  that  far  height  none  dared  to  go ; 

No  aid  could  reach  him  there. 

We  gazed,  —  but  not  a  man  could  speak  I 

With  horror  all  aghast, 
In  groups,  with  pallid  brow  and  cheek. 

We  watched  the  quivering  mast 
The  atmosphere  grew  thick  and  hot, 

And  of  a  lurid  hue  ; 
As  riveted  unto  the  spot, 

Stood  officers  and  crew. 

The  father  came  on  deck,  —  he  gasped, 

"Oh  God!  thy  will  be  done  1" 
Then  suddenly  a  rifle  grasped, 

And  aimed  it  at  his 


346  Exercises  ix  Elocutiox. 

"  Jump  far  out,  boy,  into  the  wave  ! 

Jump  or  I  fire  I  "  he  said  ; 
"  That  only  chance  thy  life  can  save  1 

"  Jump !  jump,  boy  1  "  —  he  obeyed. 

He  sunk,  —  he  rose,  —  he  lived,  —  he  moved,  — 

And  for  the  ship  struck  out; 
On  board,  we  hailed  the  lad  beloved, 

With  many  a  manly  shout 
His  father  drew,  in  silent  joy, 

Those  wet  arms  round  his  neck,  - 
Then  folded  to  his  heart  his  boy, 

And  fainted  on  the  deck, 

O.  P.  Morris. 


From  Rose  Clark. 

•For  mercy's  sake,  what  are  you  thinking  about?'  asked  Dolly, 
'with  that  curious  look  in  your  eyes,  and  the  color  coming  ;md 
going  in  your  face  that  way  ? ' 

'I  was  thinking,'  said  the  child,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  silver 
lake,  '  how  beautiful  God  made  the  earth,  and  how  sad  it  was  there 

should  be ' 

at,  now?'  asked  Dolly  tartly. 

'Any  sorrow  in  it,'  said  Rose. 

1  The  earth  is  well  enough,  I  s'pose,'  said  Dolly.  '  I  never  looked 
at  it  much ;  and  as  to  the  rest  of  your  remark.  I  hope  you  will 
remember  it  when  you  get  home,  and  not  plague  my  life  out  when 
I  want  you  to  work.  Let's  see :  you  will  have  the  shop  to  sweep 
out,  the  window-shutters  to  take  down  and  put  up  night  and  morn- 
ing, errands  to  run,  sewing,  washing,  ironing,  and  scrubbing  to  dc, 
dishes  to  wash,  besides  a  few  other  little  things. 

'Of  course,  you  will  have  your  own  clothes  to  make  and  to  mend, 
the  sheets  and  towels  to  hem,  and  be  learning,  meanwhile,  to  wait 
on  customers  in  the  shop;  I  shan't  trust  you  with  the  money-drawer 
till  I  know  whether  you  are  honest.' 

Rose's  face  became  crimson,  and  she  involuntarily  moved  further 
away  from  Dolly. 


Exercises  ix  Elocution.  347 

'None  of  that,  now,'  said  that  lady;  'such  airs  won't  go  down 
with  me.    ,  It  is  a  pity  if  I  can't  speak  to  my  own  sister's  child.' 

Rose  thought  this  was  the  only  light  in  which  she  was  likely  to 
view  the  relationship;  but  she  was  too  wise  to  reply. 

4  There's  no  knowing,'  said  Dolly  '  what  you  may  have  learned 
among  those  children  at  the  asylum.'  ' 

•u  put  me  there,  Aunt  Dolly,'  said  Rose. 

'Of  course  I  put  you  there;  but  did  I  tell  you  to  learn  all  the  bad 
l  you  saw  ?' 

You  did  n't  tell  me  not;  but  I  never  would  take  what  belonged 
to  another.' 

'Shut  up  now  —  you  are  just  like  your  mother,  ex-actly.'     And 
Dolly  stopped  here,  considering  that  she  would  go  no  further  in  the 

way  of  invective. 

****** 

'  Aunt  Dolly,'  said  Rose,  timidly,  about  a  month  after  the  event* 

Aunt  Dolly '  and  here  Rose  stopped  short 

'Out  with  it,'  said  Dolly,  'if  you've  got  any  thing  to  say.     You 
me  as  nervous  as  an  eel,  twisting  that  apron-string,  and  Aunt 
Dolly-ing  such  an  eternity:  if  you  have  got  any  thing  to  say,  out 
with  it.' 

'May  I  go  to  the  evening-school ?' asked  Rose.     'It  is  a  free- 
school.' 

U,  you  are  not  free  to  go,  if  it  is;  you  know  how  to  read 
and  write,  and  I  have  taught  you  how  to  make  change  pretty  well — 
-  all  you  need  for  my  purposes.' 
4  But  I  should  like  to  learn  other  things,  Aunt  Dolly.' 
4  What  other  things,  I'd  like  to  know  ?     That's  your  mother  all 
over.     She  never  was  content  without  a  book  at  the  end  of  her 
nose.     She  could  n't  have  earned  her  living  to  have  saved  her  life, 
if  she  had  n't  got  married.1 

*  It  was  pnrtly  to  earn  my  living  I  wanted  to  learn,  Aunt  Dolly: 
perhaps  I  could  be  a  teacli 

4  Too  grand  to  trim  caps  and  bonnets,  like  your  Aunt  Dolly,  I 
I  -he,  sneeringly ;  '  it  is  quite  beneath  a  charity-oi ; 
I  suppose.' 

'No,  K>uld  like  to  teach  b.  t 

•Well,  you  won't  do  it  —  MTtf   no  time.     So  there's  all  th<re  is 


348  &XERCISES  IN  ElOCUTIOX. 

to  that :  now  take  that  ribbon,  and  make  the  bows  to  old  Mrs, 
Griffin's  cap.  The  idea  of  wanting  to  be  a  school-teacher  when 
yon  have  it  at  your  fingers'  ends  to  twist  up  a  ribbon  so  easy  —  it 
Is  ridikilis !  Did  Miss  Snow  come  here  lafet  night,  after  I  went  out, 
for  her  bonnet?' 

'  Yes,'  answered  Rose. 

'Did  you  tell  her  it  was  all  finished  but  the  cap-frill?'  asked 
Dolly. 

•  No  •  because  I  knew  that  it  was  not  yet  begun,  and  I  could  not 
tcl  a  — a—' 

'Lie!  I  suppose,'  screamed  Dolly,  putting  her  face  very  close  to 
Rose's,  as  if  to  defy  her  to  say  the  obnoxious  word;  'is  that  it?' 

'  Yea,'  said  Rose,  courageously. 

'Good  girl!  good  girl!'  said  Dolly;  'shall  have  a  medal,  so  it 
shall ; '  and  cuttiug  a  large  oval  out  of  a  bit  of  pasteboard,  and  pass- 
ing a  twine  string  through  it,  she  hung  it  round  her  neck:  '  Good 
little  Rosy-Posy  — just  like  its  conscientious  mamma!' 

1 1  wnh  I  were  half  as  good  as  my  mamma,'  said  Rose,  with  a 
trembling  voice. 

'I  suppose  you  think  that  Aunt  Dolly  is  a  great  sinner ! '  said 
that  lady. 

'  We  are  all  great  sinners,  are  we  not?'  answered  Rose. 

'All  but  little  Rosy-Posy,'  sneered  Dolly:  'she  is  perfect  — only 
needs  a  pair  of  wings  to  take  her  straight  up  to  heaven.' 

Fanny  Fern. 


From  the  American  Note-books. 
An  article  to  be  made  of  telling  the  stories  of  the  tiles  of  an  old- 
fashioned  chimney-piece  to  a  child. 

A  person  conscious  that  he  was  soon  to  die,  the  humor  in  which 
le  would  pay  his  last  visit  to  familiar  persons  and  things. 

A  description  of  the  various  classes  of  hotels  and  taverns,  and 
•he  prominent  personages  in  each.  There  should  be  some  story 
connected  with  it,  —  as  of  a  person  commencing  with  boarding  at 
a  great  hotel,  and  gradually,  as  his  means  grow  less,  descending  in 
life,  till  he  got  below  ground  into  a  cellar 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  349 

A  person  to  be  in  the  possession  of  something  as  perfect  as  mor- 
tal man  has  a  right  to  demand ;  he  tries  to  make  it  better  and  ruins 
it  entirely. 

A  person  to  spend  all  his  life  and  splendid  talents  in  trying  to 
achieve  something  naturally  impossible,  —  as  to  make  a  conquest 
over  Nature. 

Meditations  about  the  main  gas-pipe  of  a  great  city, — if  the 
supply  were  to  be  stopped,  what  would  happen  ?  How  many  dif- 
ferent scenes  it  sheds  light  on  ?  It  might  be  made  emblematical  of 
something. 

A  fairy  tale  about  chasing  Echo  to  her  hiding-piace.  Echo  is  the 
voice  of  a  reflection  in  a  mirror. 

A  house  to  be  built  over  a  natural  spring  of  inflammable  gas,  and 
to  be  constantly  illuminated  therewith.  What  moral  could  be  drawn 
from  this?  It  is  a  carburetted  hydrogen  gas,  and  is  cooled  from  a 
soft  shale  or  slate,  which  is  sometimes  bituminous,  and  contains 
more  or  less  carbonate  of  lime.  It  appears  in  the  vicinity  of  Lock- 
port  and  Niagara  Falls,  and  elsewhere  in  New  York.  I  believe  it 
indicates  coal.  At  Fredonia,  the  whole  village  is  lighted  by  it 
where,  a  farm-house  was  lighted  by  it,  and  no  other  fuel  used 
in  the  coldest  weather. 

Gnomes,  or  other  mischievous  little  fiends,  to  be  represented  as 
burrowing  in  the  hollow  teeth  of  some  person  who  has  subject  «-d 
himself  to  their  power.  It  should  be  a  child's  story.  This  should 
be  one  of  many  modes  of  petty  torment  They  should  be  contrasted 
with  beneficient  fairies,  who  minister  to  the  pleasures  of  the  good. 

A  man  will  undergo  great  toil  and  hardship  for  ends  that  must  be 
many  years  distant,  —  as  wealth  or  fame, —  but  none  for  an  end 
that  may  be  close  at  hand,  — as  the  joys  of  heaven. 

Insincerity  in  a  man's  own  heart  must  make  all  his  enjoyments, 

all  that  concerns  him,  unreal ;  so  that  his  whole  life  must  seem  like 

dramatic  r  >u.     And  this  would  be  the  case, 

though   he  were  surrounded  by   ti  1   relatives  and 

I  itndi 


350  SXMMOaMS  IN  ELOCUTION. 

A  company  of  men,  none  of  whom  have  anything  worth  hoping 
for  on  earth,  yet  who  do  not  look  forward  to  anything  beyond 
earth  ! 

Sorrow  to  be  personified,  and  its  effect  on  a  family  represented 
by  the  way  in  which  the  members  of  the  family  regard  this  dark- 
clad  and  sad-browed  inmate. 

A  story  to  show  how  we  are  all  wronged  and  wrongers,  and 
avenge  one  another. 

To  personify  winds  of  various  characters. 

A  man  living  a  wicked  life  in  one  place,  and  simultaneously  a 
virtuous  and  religious  one  in  another. 

An  ornament  to  be  worn  about  the  person  of  a  lady,  —  as  a  jew- 
elled heart.  After  many  years,  it  happens  to  be  broken  or  un- 
screwed, and  a  poisonous  odor  comes  out 

A  company  of  persons  to  drink  a  certain  medicinal  preparation, 
which  would  prove  a  poison,  or  the  contrary,  according  to  their 
different  characters. 

Many  persons,  without  a  consciousness  of  so  doing,  to  contribute 
to  some  one  end ;  as  to  a  beggar's  feast,  made  up  of  broken  victuals 
from  many  tables;  or  a  patch  carpet,  woven  of  shreds  from  innu- 
merable garments. 

Some  very  famous  jewel  or  other  thing,  much  talked  of  all  over 
the  world.  Some  person  to  meet  with  it,  and  get  possession  of  it 
in  some  unexpected  manner,  amid  homely  circumstances. 

A  cloud  in  the  shape  of  an  old  woman  kneeling,  with  arms  ex- 
tended toward  the  moon. 

On  being  transported  to  strange  scenes,  we  feel  as  if  all  were 
unreal.  This  is  but  the  perception  of  the  true  unreality  of  earthly 
things,  made  evident  by  the  want  of  congruity  between  ourselves 
and  them.  By  and  by  we  become  mutually  adapted,  and  the  per- 
ception is  lost. 


/.  \  of  Elocution.  351 

An  old  looking-glass.  Somebody  find9  out  the  secret  of  making 
all  the  images  that  have  been  reflected  in  it  pass  back  again  across 
its  surface. 

Our  Indian  races  having  reared  no  monuments,  like  the  Greeks, 
Romans  and  Egyptians,  when  they  have  disappeared  from  the  earth 
their  history  will  appear  a  fable,  and  they  misty  phantoms. 

A  woman  to  sympathize  with  all  emotions,  but  to  have  none  of 
her  own. 

A  letter,  written  a  century  or  more  ago,  but  which  has  never  yet 
been  unsealed. 

A  dreadful  secret  to  be  communicated  to  several  people  of  vari- 
ous characters, — grave  or  gay, — and  they  all  to  become  insane, 
according  to  their  characters,  by  the  influence  of  the  secret. 

Stories  to  be  told  of  a  certain  person's  appearance  in  public,  of 
his  having  been  seen  in  various  situations,  and  of  his  making  visits 
in  private  circles;  but  finally,  on  looking  for  this  person,  to  come 
upon  his  old  grave  and  mossy  tombstone. 

The  influence  of  a  peculiar  mind,  in  close  communion  with  an- 
other, to  drive  the  latter  to  insanity. 

To  look  at  a  beautiful  girl,  and  picture  all  the  lovers,  in  different 
situations,  whose  hearts  are  centered  upon  her. 

Nathaniel  Eawthorne. 


Invocation  to  Light. 
O  holy  light  1  thou  art  old  as  the  look   of  God,  and  eternal  as 
word.     The  an-  rooked  in   thy  lap,  and  their  infant 

M  were  brightened  by  thee.     Creation  is  in  thy  memory.     By 
the  throne  of  Jehovah  was  set,  and  thy  hand  burnished 
I  *tars  that  glitter  in  His  crown.      Worlds  new  from    II  I 
omnipotent,  hand   were   sprinkled  with  beams  from   thy 
font.     At  103  to  fill  her  silver  horn; 

Saturn  bathes  !.  rings;  Jupiter  lights  his  waning  n: 

and    Venus   dips   her   qu.  Thy    fountains    are 


352  JlXERClSES  IN  ELOCUTION. 

■ss  as  the  ocean  of  heavenly  love,  thy  center  is  everywhere, 
an<l  thy  boundary  no  power  has  mm 

Thy  beams  gild  the  illimitable  fields  of  space,  and  gladden  the 
farthest  verge  of  the  universe.  The  glories  of  the  seventh  heaven 
are  open  to  thy  gaze,  and  thy  glare  is  felt  in  the  woes  of  Lowest 
is."  The  sealed  books  of  heaven  by  thee  are  read,  and 
thine  eye,  like  the  Infinite,  canst  pierce  the  dark  veil  of  the  future, 
and  glance  backward  through  the  mystic  cycles  of  the  past.  Thy 
touch  gives  the  lily  its  whiteness,  the  rose  its  tint,  and  thy  kindling 
ray  makes  the  diamond's  light.  Thy  beams  are  mighty  as  the 
power  that  binds  the  spheres. 

Thou  canst  change  the  sleety  winds  to  soothing  tephyrs;  and 
thou  canst  melt  the  icy  mountains  of  the  poles  to  gentle  rains 
and  dewy  vapors. 

The  granite  rocks  of  the  hills  are  upturned  by  thee,  volcanoes 

burst,  islands  sink  and   rise,  rivers  roll  and  oceans  swell  at  thy 

f  command.     And  oh  I  thou  monarch  of  the  skies,  bend  now 

thy   bow  of   millioned   arrows    and    pierce,   if   thou   canst,   this 

darkness  that  thrice  twelve  moons  has  bound  me. 

Burst  now  thine  emerald  gates,  oh  I  Morn,  and  let  thy  dawning 
come. 

Mine  eyes  roll  in  vain  to  find  thee,  and  my  soul  is  weary  of  this 
interminable  gloom.  The  past  comes  back  robed  in  a  pall  which 
makes  all  things  dark,  and  covers  the  future  with  but  a  ray  less 
night  of  years.  My  heart  is  the  tomb  of  blighted  hopes,  and  all 
the  misery  of  feelings  unemployed  has  settled  on  me.  I  am 
misfortune's  child,  and  sorrow  long  since  marked  me  for  her  own. 

Mrs.  S.  H.  DeKroyft. 


WJUUtcmMB  ix  Elocution.  353 

From  Richelieu. 

Richelieu.  And  so  you  think  this  new  conspiracy 
M  trap  \vt  laid  for  the  old  fox?  — 
Fox  I  —  Well,  I  like  the  nickname  1     What  did  Plutarch 
of  the  Greek  Lynod 

Joseph.  I  forget 

Rich.  That  where  the  lion's  skin  fell  short,  lie  eked  it 
Out  with  the  fox's!     A  great  statesman,  Joseph, 
That  same  Lysander  1 

pk.  Orleans  heads  the  traitors. 

Rich.  A  very  wooden  head  then  I     Well  ? 

Joseph.  The  favorite ; 
Count  Baradas  — 

Rich.  A  weed  of  hasty  growth, 
First  gentleman  of  the  chamber,  —  titles,  lands, 
And  the  King's  earl     It  cost  me  six  long  winters 
To  mount  as  high,  as  in  six  little  moons 
This  painted  lizard  —  But  I  hold  the  ladder, 
And  when  I  shake  he  falls  1     What  more  ? 

Joseph.  A  scheme 
To  make  your  orphan  ward  an  instrument 
To  aid  your  foes  you  placed  her  with  the  Queen, 
One  of  the  royal  chamber,  as  a  watch 
r  th'  enemy's  quarters  — 

Rich.  And  the  silly  child 
Visits  me  daily,  calls  me  "Father,"  — prays 
Kind  Heaven  to  bless  me.     Senseless  puppet 
No  ears  nor  eyes  1     And  yet  she  says :  "  She  loves  me !  '* 
Go  on  — 

Joseph.  Your  ward  has  charmed  the  King. 

Rich.  The  King  is  weak  —  whoever  the  King  loves 
Must  rule  the  King;  the  lady  loves  another, 
The  other  rules  the  lady,  thus  we  are  balked 
Of  our  •\vn  proper  sway.     The  King  must  have 
No  goddess  but  the  State :  —  the  State !     That's  Richelieu! 

Joseph.  This  is  not  the  worst;  Louis,  in  all  decorous, 
And  deeming  you  her  lent  compliant  guardian, 
Would  veil  his  suit  by  marriage  with  his  minion, 
Your  prosperous  foe,  Count  Baradas! 


354  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Rich.  Ha!  ha! 
I  have  another  bride  for  Baradas! 

Enter  Francois 

Francois.  Mademoiselle  De  Mortemar  1 

Rich.  Most  opportune  —  admit  her.  [Exit  Francoiu 

In  my  closet 
You'll  find  a  rosary,  Joseph ;  ere  you  tell 
Three  hundred  beads,  I'll  summon  you.  —  Stay,  Joseph; 
I  did  omit  an  Ave  in  my  matins  — 
A  grievous  fault ;  atone  it  for  me,  Joseph. 

Enter  Julie  di  Mortemar. 

Richelieu.  That's  my  sweet  Julie !  why,  upon  this  face 
Blushes  such  daybreak,  one  might  swear  the  morning 
Were  come  to  visit  Tithon. 

Julie  (placing  herself  at  his  feet).  Are  you  gracious? 
May  I  say  "Father?" 

Rich.  Now  and  ever! 

Julie.  Father  I 
A  sweet  word  to  an  orphan. 

Rick.  No ;  not  orphan 
While  Richelieu  lives;  thy  father  loved  me  well; 
My  friend,  ere  I  had  flatterers  (now  I'm  great, 
In  other  phrase,  I'm  friendless)  —  he  died  young 
In  years,  not  service,  and  bequeathed  thee  to  me; 
And  thou  shalt  have  a  dowry,  girl,  to  buy 
Thy  mate  amid  the  mightiest     Drooping?  —  sighs?  — 
Art  thou  not  happy  at  the  court? 

Julie.  Not  often. 

Rich,  (aside).  Can  she  love  Baradas?     Ah!  at  thy  heart 
There's  what  can  smile  and  sigh,  blush  and  grow  pale, 
All  in  a  breath!     Thou  art  admired  —  art  young; 
Does  not  his  Majesty  commend  thy  beauty  — 
Ask  thee  to  sing  to  him?  —  and  swear  such  sounds 
Had  smoothed  the  brow  of  Saul? 

Julie.  He's  very  tiresome, 
Our  worthy  King. 

Rich.  Fie!  Kings  are  never  tiresome 
Save  to  their  ministers.     What  courtly  gallants 


Si  -  /.v  Slocuttom.  as 

Charm  ladies  most? — De  Sourdiao,  Longueville,  or 
The  favorite  Baradas? 

Julie.  A  smileless  man  — 
.Fear  and  shun  him. 

Rieh,  Yet  he  courts  thee  I 

Julie.  Then 
He  is  more  tiresome  than  his  Majesty. 

Rich.  Right,  girl,  shun  Baradas.     Yet  of  the  flowers 
Of  France,  not  one,  in  whose  more  honeyed  breath 
Thy  heart  hears  summer  whisper? 

Enter  Huourr. 

HugueL  The  Chevalier 
De  Mauprat  waits  below. 

Julie  (starting  up).  De  Mauprat ! 

Rich.  Heml 
He  has  been  tiresome  too  I  —  Anon.  [Exit  Hrourr. 

Julie.  What  doth  he  ? 
I  mean  —  I  —  Does  your  Eminence  —  that  is  — 
Know  you  Messire  de  Mouprat? 

Rich.  Weill  —  and  you  — 
Has  he  addressed  you  often  ? 

Julie.  Often!     No  — 
Nine  times:  nay,  ten;  —  the  last  time  by  the  lattice 
Of  the  great  staircase.     (In  a  melancJioly  tone.)     The  Court 
sees  him  rarely. 

Rich.  A  bold  and  forward  royster  I 

Julie.  Het  nay,  modest, 
Gentle  and  sad,  methinks. 

Rich.  Wears  gold  and  azure  ? 

Julie.  No;  sable. 

Rich.  So  you  note  his  colors,    Julie  ? 
Shame  on  you,  child,  look  loftier.     By  the  mass, 
I  have  business  with  this  modest  gentleman. 

Julie.  You're  angry  with  poor  Julie.     There's  no  cause. 

Rich.  No  cause  —  you  hate  my  foes  ? 

Julie.  I  dol 

AicA.  Hate  Mauprat? 

Julie.  Not  Mauprat.     No,  not  Adrien,  father. 


356  i:kcise8  in  Elocution. 

Rich.  Adrian  I 
Familiar !  —  Go,  child ;  no,  — not  that  way ;  wait 
In  the  tapestry  chamber;  I  will  join  you,  —  go. 

Julie.  His  brows  are  knit;  I  dare  not  call  him  father! 
But  I  must  speak.     Your  Eminence  — 

Rich,  (sternly).  Well,  girl  I 

Julie.  Nay, 
Smile  on  me  —  one  smile  more ;  there,  now  I'm  happy. 
Do  not  rank  Mauprat  with  your  foes;  he  is  not, 
I  know  he  is  not;  he  loves  France  too  will. 

Rich.  Not  rank  De  Mauprat  with  my  foes? 
So  be  it 
Fll  blot  him  from  that  list. 

Julie.  That's  my  own  father.  \Exit  JuLik. 

Rich.  Huguetl 

Enter  Huouet. 

De  Mauprat  struggled  not  ncr  murmur'd  ? 

ffuguet.  No:  proud  and  passive. 

Rich.  Bid  him  enter.  —  Hold: 
Look  that  he  hide  no  weapon.     Humph,  despair 
Makes  victims  sometimes  victors.     When  he  has  enter'd, 
Glide  round  unseen ;  place  thyself  yonder ;  watch  him ; 
If  he  show  violence  —  (let  me  see  thy  carbine; 
So,  a  good  weapon  ; )  if  he  play  the  lion, 
Why  —  the  dog's  death. 

Ex't  Huguet  ;  Richelieu  seats  himself  at  the  table.     Enter  D* 
Mauprat. 

Rich.  Approach,  sir.     Can  you  call  to  mind  the  hour, 
Now  three  years  since,  when  in  this  room,  methinks, 
Your  presence  honored  me  ? 

De  Mauprat.  It  is,  my  lord, 
One  of  my  most  — 

Rich,  (dryly).  Delightful  recollections. 

Be  Maup.  (aside).  St  Denis  1  doth  he  make  a  jest  of  axe 
and  headsman  ? 

Rich,  (sternly).  I  did  then  accord  you 
A  mercy  ill  requited !  —  you  still  live  ? 


A\  ix  Elocution.  367 

Messire  de  Mauprat, 
Doom'd  to  sure  death,  how  hast  since  consumed 
The  time  allotted  thee  for  serious  thought 
And  solemn  penance  ? 

De  Afaup.  (embarrassed.)  The  time,  my  Lord  ? 

Rich.  Is  not  the  question  plain  ?     I'll  answer  for  thee. 
Thou  hast  sought  nor  priest  nor  shrine;  no  sackcloth  chafed 
Thy  delicate  flesh.     The  rosary  and  the  death's-head 
Have  Dot,  with  pious  meditation,  purged 
Earth  from  the  carnal  gaze.     What  thou  hast  not  done, 
Brief  told;  what  doue,  a  volume  1     Wild  debauch, 
Turbulent  riot: — for  the  morn  the  dice-box  — 
Noon  claim'd  the  duel  —  and  the  night  the  wassail: 

•,  your  most  holy  pure  preparatives 
For  death  and  judgment  1     Do  I  wrong  you,  Sir? 

De  Afaup.  J  was  not  always  thus:  —  if  changed  my  nature, 
Blame  that  which  changed  my  fate.  —  Alas,  ray  Lord, 
Were  this  your  fate,  perchance, 
You  would  have  err'd  like  me  I 

Rich.  I  might,  like  you, 
Have  been  a  brawler  and  a  reveler ;  —  not, 
Like  you,  a  trickster  and  a  thief, — 

De  Afaup.  (aduancing  threateningly.)  Lord  Cardinal  I 
tj  those  words  1  — 

Rich,  (waving  his  hand.)  Not  quite  so  quick,  friend  Huguet; 
Messire  de  Mauprat  is  a  patient  man, 
And  he  can  wait!  — 

You  have  outrun  your  fortune; 
I  blame  you  not  that  you  would  be  a  beggar  — 
Each  to  his  taste  I  — but  I  do  charge  you,  Sir, 
That  being  beggar'd,  you  would  coin  false  moneji 
Out  of  that  crucible,  called  dkiit.  —  To  live 
On  means  not  yours  —  be  brave  in  silks  and  laces, 
Gallant  in  steeds,  splendid  in  banquets;  —  all 
Not  yours  —  ungiven,  unherited  —  unpaid  for; 
Thu  is  to  be  a  trickst.r;  and  to  filch 
Men's  art  and  labor,  which  to  them  is  wealth, 

,  daily  bread,  —quitting  all  scores  with  —  "  Friend, 


358  7/\  i  in  Elocution. 

You're  troublesome  !  " —  Why  this,  forgive  me, 

Is  what  —  when  done  with  a  less  dainty  grace  — 

Plain  folks  call  "  Theft!  "  —  You  owe  eight  thousand  pistole*. 

M  in  us  one  crown,  two  lairds  1     I  tell  you,  Sir, 

That  you  must  pay  your  debts  — 

De  Maup.  With  all  my  heart, 
My  Lord.     Where  shall  I  borrow,  then,  the  money  ? 
Rich,  (aside  and  laughing.)  A  humorous  ft  How, 
—  The  very  man 
To  suit  my  purpose  —  ready,  frank,  and  bold! 
Adrian  de  Mauprat,  men  have  called  me  cruel; 
I  am  not;  I  am  just  I — I  found  France  rent  asunder, 
Tii-  rich  men  despots,  and  the  poor  banditti ;  — 
Sloth  in  the  mart,  and  schism  within  the  temple; 
Brawls  festering  to  Rebellion ;  and  weak  Laws 
Rotting  away  with  rust  in  antique  sheaths  — 
I  have  re-created  France;  and  from  the  ashes 
Of  the  old  feudal  and  decrepid  carcase, 
Civilization  on  her  luminous  wings 
Soars,  — phcenix-like,  to  Jove  1  —  What  was  my  art? 
Cit-niiis,  some  say,  —  some  Fortune,  —  Witchcraft,  some. 
Not  so ;  my  art  was  Justice  1  —  Force  and  fraud 
Misname  it  cruelty  — you  shall  confute  them  ! 
My  champion  voul  —  You  met  me  as  your  foe. 
Depart  my  friend — you  shall  not  die  —  France  needs  you. 
You  shall  "w  ipe  off  all  stains,  —  be  rich,  be  honor' d, 

Be  great [De  Mauprat  falls  on  his  knee  —  Richelieu  raises  him 

I  ask,  Sir,  in  retui^,  this  hand, 
To  gift  it  with  a  bride,  whose  dowry  shall  match, 
Yet  not  exceed  her  beauty. 
De  Maup.  I,  m}'  Lord  — 
I  have  no  wish  to  marry. 

Rich.  Surely,  Sir, 
To  die  were  worse. 

De  Maup.  Scarcely ;  the  poorest  coward 
Must  die,  — but  knowingly  to  march  to  marriage  — 
My  Lord,  it  asks  the  courage  of  a  lion ! 

Rich.  Traitor,  thou  triflest  with  me  I  —  I  know 
Thou  hast  dared  to  love  my  ward  —  my  charge. 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  359 

De  Maup.  As  rivers 
Nfiv  l.»ve  the  sunlight —  basking  in  the  beams, 
An«  1  hurrying  OB  !  — 

rj.  Thou  has  told  her  of  thy  love? 

De  Maup.  My  Lord,  if  I  had  dared  to  love  a  maid, 
Lowliest  in  France,  I  would  not  so  have  wrong'd  her, 
As  bid  her  link  rich  life  and  virgin  hope 
Willi  one,  the  deathman's  gripe  might,  from  her  side, 
Pluck  at  the  nuptial  altar. 

I  believe  thee; 
Yet  since  she  knows  not  of  thy  love,  renounce  her; 
Take  life  and  fortune  with  another! — Silent? 

De  Maup.  Your  faith  has  been  one  triumph.     You  know  not 
B  m  bleai'd  a  thing  it  was  in  my  dark  hour 
To  nurse  the  one  sweet  thought  you  bid  me  banish. 
Love  hath  no  need  of  words;  —  nor  less  within 
That  holiest  temple  —  the  heaven-builded  soul  — 
Breathes  the  recorded  vow  —  Base  night  —  false  lover 
Were  he,  who  barter' d  all  that  brighten'd  grief) 
Or  sanctified  despair,  for  life  and  gold. 
Revoke  your  mercy ;  I  prefer  the  fate 
Ilook'dfor! 

Rich.  Huguet  to  the  tapestry  chamber 
Conduct  your  prisoner. 
(  lb  Mai-prat.)  You  will  there  behold 
The  executioner: — your  doom  be  private  — 
And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  you  I 

De  Maup.  When  I'm  dead, 
Tell  her,  I  loved  her. 

Iii'-h.   Keep  such  follies,  Sir, 
F< >r  fitter  ears ;  —  go  — 

De  Maup.  D.>es  he  mock  me? 

[Exeunt  Ds  Mauprat  and  H  corner.) 
Rich.  Joseph, 
Come  forth. 

Enter  Joseph. 
Mcthinks  your  cheek  has  lost  its  rubies ; 
I  fear  you  have  been  too  lavish  of  the  flesh; 
The  scourge  is  heavy. 
16 


360  Eg**  Of  i^ot  i/'r/o.v. 

Joseph.  Pray  you,  change  the  subject. 

Rich.  You  good  men  are  so  modest!  —  Well,  to  bisineat 
Go  instantly  —  deeds  —  notaries  I  —  bid  my  stewards 
Arrange  my  house  by  the  Luxembourg  —  my  house 
No  more !  —  a  bridal  present  to  my  ward, 
Who  weds  to-morrow. 

Joseph.  Weds,  with  whom? 
.  De  Mauprat 

Joseph.  Penniless  husband  ? 

Rich.  Bah  I  the  mate  for  beauty 
Should  be  a  man  and  not  a  money-chest! 
When  her  brave  sire  lay  on  his  bed  of  death, 
I  vowed  to  be  a  father  to  his  Julie ;  — 
And  when  he  died  —  the  smile  upon  his  lips !  — 
And  when  1  -pared  the  life  of  her  young  lover, 
Mt- thought  I  saw  that  smile  again  I  —  Who  else, 
Look  you,  in  all  the  court —  who  else  so  well. 
Brave,  or  supplant  the   favorite ;  —  balk  the  King  — 
Baffle  their  schemes  ?  —  I  have  tried  him :  —  he  has  honor 
And  courage ;  qualities  that  eagle-plume 
Men's  souls,  —  and  fit  them  for  the  fiercest  sun 
Which  ever  melted  the  weak  waxen  minds 
That  flutter  in  the  beams  of  gaudy  Power  I 

Joseph.  And  yet  your  foe. 

Rich.  Have  I  not  foes  enow  ?  — 
Great  men  gain  doubly  when  they  make  foes  friends. 
Remember  my  grand  maxims  I  —  First  employ 
All  methods  to  conciliate. 

Joseph.  Failing  these  ? 

Rich,  (fiercely.)  All  means  to  crush ;  as  with  the  opening,  and 
The  clenching  of  this  little  hand,  I  will 
Crush  the  small  venom  of  these  stinging  courtiers. 
So,  so,  we've  baffled  Baradas. 

Joseph.  And  when 
Check  the  conspiracy  ? 

Rich.  Check,  check  I     Full  way  to  it 
Let  it  bud,  ripen,  flaunt  i'  the  day,  and  burst 
To  fruit —  the  Dead  §ea's  fruit  of  ashes ;  ashes 
Which  I  will  scatter  to  the  winds. 

Go,  Joseph. 


1  \\  i  jy  Elocution.  36\ 

Enter  Db  Mauprat  and  Julie. 
De  Maup.  Oh,  speak,  my  Lord  I  I  dare  not  think  you  mock  me. 
And  yet  — 

llirh.  (reading.)  Hush,  hush  —  this  line  must  be  considered  I 

Julie.  Are  we  not  both  your  children? 

Rich.  What  a  couplet  I  — 
llow  now  !     Oh,  Sir  —  you  live  I 

De  Maup.  Why,  no,  methinks, 
um  is  not  life. 

Julie.  He  smiles  1  you  smile, 
My  father  I     From  my  heart  for  ever,  now, 
I'll  blot  the  name  of  orphan  1 

Rich.  Rise,  my  children, 
ye  are  mine  —  mine  both;  and  in  your  sweet 
And  young  delight,  your  love  —  life's  first-born  glory, 
My  own  lost  youth  breathes  musical  1 

De  Maup.  I'll  seek 
Temple  and  priest  henceforward: — were  it  but 
To  learn  heaven's  choicest  blessings. 

Rich.  Thou  shalt  seek 
Temple  and  priest  right  soon  ;  the  morrow's  sun 
Shall  see  across  these  barren  thresholds  pass 
The  fairest  bride  in  Paris.     Go,  my  children; 
Even  /loved  once  I — Be  lovers  while  ye  may. 
How  is  it  with  you,  sir  ?     You  bear  it  bravely : 
You  know  it  asks  the  courage  of  a  lion. 

[Exeunt  Dt  Mauprat  and  Jum* 
Oh,  godlike  power!     Wo,  Rapture,  Penury,  Wealth  — 
Marriage  and  Death,  for  one  infirm  old  man 
Through  a  great  empire  to  dispense  —  withhold  — 
As  the  will  whispers  I     And  shall  things,  like  motes 
That  live  in  my  daylight;  lackeys  of  court  wages, 
Dwarf  d  starvelings;  manikins  upon  whose  shoulders 
The  burthen  of  a  province  were  a  load 
More  heavy  than  the  globe  on  Atlas  —  cast 
Lots  fo.-  my  robes  and  scepter?     France,  I  love  thee! 
All  earth  shall  never  pluck  thee  from  my  li< 
My  mistress,  France  ;  my  wedded  wife,  sweet  France  • 
Who  shall  proclaim  divorce  for  thee  and  me  I 


362  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Enter  Francois  hastily,  and  in  part  disguised. 

Rich.  Quick  —  the  despatch !  —  Power  —  Empire !     Boy  -  -  the 
packet ! 

Francois.  Kill  me,  my  lord  ! 

Rich.  They  knew  thee  —  they  suspected  — 
They  gave  it  not  — 

Francois.  He  gave  it  —  he  —  the  Count 
De  Baradas  —  with  his  own  hand  gave  it 

Rich.  Baradas  t     Joy  I  out  with  it  1 

Francois.  Listen, 
And  then  dismiss  me  to  the  headsman. 

Rich.  Hal 
Oo  on  I 

Francois.  They  led  me  to  a  chamber.     There 
Orleans  and  Baradas  —  and  some  half-score, 
Whom  I  knew  not  —  were  met  — 

Rich.  Not  more  I 

Francois.  But  from 
Th'  adjoining  chamber  broke  the  din  of  voices, 
The  clattering  tread  of  armed  men  ;  —  at  times 
A  shriller  cry,  that  yelled  out,  "  Death  to  Richelieu  !  " 

Rich.  Speak  not  of  me  I  thy  country  is  in  danger ! 
Th'  adjoining  room  —  So,  so  —  a  separate  treason  I 
The  one  thy  ruin,  France  I  —  the  meaner  crime, 
Left  to  their  tools  —  my  murder ! 

Francois.  Baradas 
Questioned  me  close  —  deraurr'd  —  until,  at  last, 
O'erruled  by  Orleans  —  gave  the  packet  —  told  me 
That  life  and  death  were  in  the  scroll :  —  This  gold  — 

Rich.  Gold  is  no  proof — 

Francois  —  And  Orleans  promised  thousands, 
When  Bouillon's  trumpets  in  the  streets  of  Paris 
Rang  out  the  shrill  answer :  hastening  from  the  house 
My  footstep  in  the  stirrup,  Marion  stole 
Across  the  threshold,  whispering,  "  Lose  no  moment 
Ere  Richelieu  have  the  packet :  tell  him,  too  — 
Murder  is  in  the  winds  of  Night,  and  Orleans 
Swears,  ere  the  dawn  the  Cardinal  shall  be  clay." 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  303 

She  said,  an  1  trembling  fled  within:  when  lol 

A  hand  of  iron  griped  me !     Thro'  the  dark, 

Gleara'd  the  dim  shadow  of  an  armed  man  : 

Ere  I  could  draw,  the  prize  was  wrested  from  me, 

And  a  hoarse  voice  gasp'd  —  M  Spy,  I  spare  thee,  for 

This  steel  is  virgin  to  thy  lord  "  —  with  that 

He  vanish'd.  —  Scared  and  trembling  for  thy  safety, 

I  mounted,  fled,  and,  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 

Implore  thee  to  acquit  my  faith  —  but  not, 

Like  him,  to  spare  my  life. 

Rich.  Who  spake  of  life  t 
I  bade  thee  grasp  that  treasure  as  thine  honor — 
A  jewel  worth  whole  hecatombs  of  lives  1 
Begone  1  redeem  thine  honor  1       Back  to  Marion  — 
Or  Baradas  —  or  Orleans  —  track  the  robber  — 
Regain  the  packet  —  or  crawl  on  to  Age  — 
Age  and  gray  hairs  like  mine  —  and  know  thou  hast  lort 
That  which  had  made  thee  great  and  saved  thy  country. 
See  me  not  till  thou'st  bought  the  right  to  seek  me. 
Away !     Nay,  cheer  thee  I  thou  hast  not  fail'd  yet  — 
There  a  no  such  word  as  "fad/  " 

Francois.  Bless  you,  my  Lord, 
For  that  one  smile!  I'll  wear  it  in  my  heart 
To  light  me  back  to  triumph.     (Ebrit.) 

Rick  The  poor  youth  ! 
An  elder  had  ask'd  lifel     I  love  the  young  I 
For  as  great  men  live  not  in  their  own  time 
But  the  next  race,  —  so  in  the  young  my  soul 
Makes  many  Richelieus.     He  will  win  it  yet 
Francois?     He's  gone.     My  murder!     Marion's  warning! 
This  bravo's  threat!     0  for  the  morrow's  dawn! 
t  my  spies  to  work  —  I'll  make  all  space 
does  the  sun)  an  Universal  Eye  — 
Huguet  shall  track  —  J  fess —  ha!  ha: 

Strange,  while  I  UoghM  I  shuiMer'd,  and  ev'n  now 
Thro'  the  chill  air  Iht  I  my  ln-art 

Sounds  like  a  death-watch  by  a  sick  man's  pillow  ; 
[f  Huguet  could  deceive  me  —  hoofs  without  — 
The  gates  unclose  —  UP  and  nearer  1 


304  J.'xercises  in  Elocution. 

Fran.  My  Lord 

Bar.  Ha,  traitor! 
In  Paris  still  I 

Iran.  The  packet  —  the  despatch  — 
Some  knave  play'd  spy  without,  and  reft  it  from  me, 
Ere  I  could  draw  my  sword. 

Bir.  Play'd  spy  without  I 
Did  he  wear  armor? 

Iran.  Aye,  from  head  to  heel 

Orleans.  One  of  our  band.     Oh,  heavens  I 

Bar.  Could  it  be  Mauprat? 
Kept  guard  at  the  door —  knew  naught  of  the  despatch  — 
How  hb?  —  and  yet,  who  other? 

iron.  Ha,  De  Mauprat  1 
The  night  was  dark  his  valour  closed. 

Bar.  'Twas  hel 
How  could  he  guess  ?  —  'sdeath !  if  he  should  betray  us. 
His  hate  to  Richelieu  dies  with  Richelieu  —  and 
He  was  not  great  enough  for  treason.     Hence ! 
Find  Mauprat  —  beg,  steal,  filch,  or  force  it  back, 
Or,  as  I  live,  the  halter 

Fran.  By  the  morrow 
I  will  regain  it,  (<wufe,)  and  redeem  my  honor! 

[Erit  Francois. 

Orleans.  Oh  !  we  are  lost  — 

Bar.  Not  so!     But  cause  on  cause 
For  Mauprat's  seizure  —  silence  —  death  I     Take  courage. 

Orleans.  Should  it  once  reach  the  King,  the  Cardinal's  arm 
Could  smite  us  from  the  grave. 

Bar.  Sir,  think  it  not! 
I  hold  De  Mauprat  in  my  grasp.     To-morrow, 
And  France  is  ours !     Thou  dark  and  fallen  Angel, 
Whose  name  on  earth's  Ambition  —  thou  that  mak'st 
Thy  throne  on  treasons,  stratagems,  and  murder  — 
And  with  thy  fierce  and  blood-red  smile  canst  quencl 
The  guiding  stars  of  solemn  empire  —  hear  us  — 
(For  we  are  thine)  —  and  light  us  to  the  goal ! 

Fran.  All  search,  as  yet,  in  vain  for  Mauprat !     Not 
At  home  since  yesternoon  —  a  soldier  told  me 


i:\ercises  n\  Elocution,  365 

He  saw  him  pass  this  way  with  hasty  strides; 
Should  he  meet  Baradas  they'd  rend  it  from  him  — 
And  then  benignant  Fortune  smiles  upon  me  — 
I  am  thy  son.     If  thou  desert'st  me  now, 
Come  Death  and  snatch  me  from  disgrace.     But  no  I 
There's  a  great  Spirit  ever  in  the  air 
That  from  prolific  and  far-spreading  wings 
Scatters  the  seeds   of  honor  —  yea,  the  walls 
And  moats  of  castled  forts,  the  barren  seas, 
The  cell  wherein  the  pale-eyed  student  holds 
Talk  with  melodious  science  —  all  are  sown 
With  everlasting  honors    if  our  souls 
Will  toil  for  fame  as  boors  for  bread 

Enter  De  Mauprat. 

Maup.  Oh,  let  me  — 
Let  me  but  meet  him  foot  to  foot  —  I'll  dig 
The  Judas  from  his  heart;  — albiet  the  King 
Should  o'er  him  cast  the  purple! 

Fran.  Mauprat  I  hold  :  — 

Where  is  the 

p.  Well  1  What  would'st  thou  ? 

Fran.  The  despatch  I 
The  packet     Look  on  me  —  I  serve  the  Cardinal  — 
You  know  me.     Did  you  not  keep  guard  last  night, 
By  Marion's  House  ? 

Maup.  I  did  :  —  no  matter  now  I 
They  told  me  he  was  here  I 

Fran.  0  joy!  quick  —  quick  — 
The  packet  thou  didst  wrest  from  me? 
./>.  The  packet  ? 

art  thou  he  I  deemed  the  Cardinal's  spy 
(Dupe  that  I  was)  —  and  overhearing  Marion  — 

Fran.  The  same  —  restore  it  I  haste ! 

Maup.  I  have  it  not: 
Methought  it  but  revealed  our  scheme  to  Richelieu. 

Enter  Baradas. 
Stand  back ! 
Now,  villian !  now,  I  have  thee  1 


366  Exercises  in  Elocutios. 

(  lb  Francois.)—  Hence,  Sir  I  Draw! 

Fran.  Art  mad  ?  the  King's  at  hand  I  leave  him  to  Richelieu  1 
Speak  —  the  despatch  to  whom  —  (A  few  passes.) 

Fly  — fly  1 
The  King! 

Dt  Maup.  Fare  you  well  1 
Save  Julie,  and  console  her. 

Fran,  (aside  to  Mauprai.)  The  Despatch ! 
Your  fate,  foes,  life,  hangs  on  a  word  1  to  whom? 

De  Maup.  To  Huguet. 

Fran.  Hush  —  keep  council  I  silence  —  hope  I 

|  IJxeunt  Mauprat  and  Guard, 

Bar.  (aside  to  Francois.)  Has  he  the  packet? 

Fran.  He  will  not  reveal — 
(Aside.)     Work,  brain  1  beat  heart  1  "  There's  no  such  word  at  fail 

Fran,  0 1  my  Lord ! 
h.  Thou  art  bleeding  I 

Fran.  A  scratch  —  I  have  not  faiFd!     \gives  the  packet. 

Rich.  Hush  I     [looking  at  the  contents. 

Third  Secretary,  (to  Kino.)  Sire,  the  Spaniards 
Have  reinforced  their  army  on  the  frontiers, 
The  Due  de  Bouillon 

Rich.  Holdl     In  this  department  — 
A  paper  —  here,  Sire,  —  read  yourself — then  take 
The  Count's  advice  in't 

Enter  De  Beringhen  hastily,  and  draws  aside  BAR\nA». 

(Richelieu,  to  Secretary,  giving  an  open  parchment.) 

Bar.  (bursting  from  De  Beringhen.)  What!  and  reft  it!   from 
thee ! 
Ha!  — hold! 

Joseph.  Fall  back  ;  son,  it  is  your  turn  now  ! 

Bar.  Death  I  —  The  Despatch  ! 

Louis,  (reading.)  To  Bouillon  —  and  sign'd  Orleans  !  — 
Baradas  too  —  league  with  our  foes  of  Spain  !  — 
Lead  our  Italian  armies  —  what!  to  Paris! 
Capture  the  King  —  my  health  requires  repose ! 


ExMMOJBMa  lx  Elocution.  307 

me  subscribe  my  proper  abdication! 
Orleans,  my  brother,  Bagentl  Saints  of  Heaven  ! 
These  are  the  men  I  loved  I     [Baradas  draws% —  attempts  to  rush 
out,  —  is  arrested,     Orleans,  endeavoring  to  escape  more  quickly, 
meets  Joseph's  eye,  and  stops  short. 
Richelieu  falls  back. 
Joseph.  See  to  the  Cardinal ! 

Bar.  He's  dying!  —  and  I  yet  shall  dupe  the  King! 
Isouis.  (rushing  to  Richelieu.)  Richelieu! — Lord  Cardinal!  —  'tis 
•^nl 
Reign  thou! 
Joseph.  Alas!  too  late! — he  faints' 
Louis    Rfign,  Richelieu! 

.  (feebly.)  With  absolute  power?  — 
Louis.  Most  absolute!  —  Oh,  live  I 
If  not  for  me  — for  France  1 
Rich.  France  ! 
Louis.  Oh  !  this  treason  ! 
The  army  —  Orleans — Bouillon  — Heavens!  the  Spaniard! 

will  they  be  next  week! 

{starting  up.)  There,  —  at  my  feet! 
(To  First  and  Second  Secretary. >  Ere  the  clock  strike  !  —  The  En- 
voys have  their  answer ! 
(To  Third  Secretary,  with  a  ring.)  This  to  De  Chavigny  —  he  knows 

the  rest  — 
No  need  of  parchment  here  —  he  must  not  halt 
For  sleep  —  for  food  —  In  my  name,  —  mine  —  he  will 

t  the  Due  de  Bouillon  at  the  head 
Of  his  army  1  —  Ho!  tlure,  Count  de  Baradas 
Thou  hast  lost  the  stake!  — Away  with  him  ! 
IJ;i!_ha!  — 

[SnatcJiing  De  Mauprat's  death  warrant  from  the  Officer. 
8ee  here,  De  Mauprat's  death-writ,  Julie  1  — 
Parchment  for  battledore? —  Embrace  your  husband  ! 
At  last  the  old  man  blesses  you  I 

Julie.  Ojoy! 
You  are  saved,  you  live  —  I  hold  you  In  these  arms. 
De  Maup.  Never  to  part  — 
16* 


368  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

Julie.  No  —  never,  Adrien  —  never ! 

Louis,  (peevishly.)  One  moment  makes  a  startling  cure,  Lord  Car- 
dinal. 

Rich.  Ay,  Sire,  for  in  one  moment  there  did  pass 
Into  this  wither'd  frame  the  might  of  France!  — 
My  own  dear  France  —  I  have  thee  yet  —  I  have  saved  theel 
I  clasp  thee  still !  —  it  was  thy  voice  that  call'd  me 
Back  from  the  tomb  I     What  mistress  like  our  country? 

Louis.  For  Mauprat's  pardon  1  —  well  I     But  Julie,  —  Richelieu 
Leave  me  one  thing  to  love  I 

Rich.  A  subject's  luxury  1 
Vet,  if  you  must  love  something,  Sire,  —  love  me  t 

Louis,  (smiling  in  spite  of  himself.)  Fair  proxy  for  a  young  fresh 
Demoiselle ! 

Rich.  Your  heart  speaks  for  my  client*:  —  kneel,  my  ohildreu, 
And  thank  your  King  — 

Julie.  Ah,  tears  like  these,  my  liege, 
Are  dews  that  mount  to  Heaven. 

Louis.  Rise  —  rise  —  be  happy. 

[Richelieu  beacons  to  Ds  Berinohen. 

De  Bet.  (  falteringly.)  My  Lord  —  you  are  most  happily  recover'd 

Rich.  But  you  are  pale,  dear  Beringhen  :  —  this  air 
Suits  not  your  delicate  frame  —  I  long  have  thought  so. 
Sleep  not  another  night  in  Paris :  —  Go,  — 
Or  else  your  precious  life  may  be  in  danger. 
Leave  France,  dear  Beringhen  I  \Ex&L 

(To  Orleans.)  For  you,  repentance  —  absence,  and  confession  I 

(To  Francois.)  Never  say  fail  again.     Brave  Boy  I 

(7b  Louis,  as  De  Mauprat  and  Julie  converse  apart.) 
See,  my  liege  —  see  thro'  plots  and  counterplots  — 
Thro'  gain  and  loss  —  thro'  glory  and  disgrace  — 
Along  the  plains,  where  passionate  Discord  rears 
Eternal  Babel  —  still  the  holy  stream 
Of  human  happiness  glides  on  I 

Louis.  And  must  we 
Thank  for  that  also  —  our  prime  minister  ? 

Rich.  Ko  —  let  us  own  it :  —  there  is  One  above 
Sways  the  harmonious  mystery  of  the  world 


Axercises  in  Elocution.  8«9 

Ev'n  better  than  prime  ministers. 

Our  gloiie8  float  between  the  earth  and  heaven 
Like  clouds  that  seem  pavilions  of  the  sun, 
And  are  the  playthings  of  the  casual  wind; 
Still,  like  the  cloud  which  drops  on  unseen  crags 
The  dews  the  wild  flower  feeds  on,  our  ambition 
May  from  its  airy  height  drop  gladness  down 
On  unsuspected  virtue ;  and  the  flower 
May  bless  the  cloud  when  it  hath  pass'd  away. 

Sir  Edward  Lytton  Bidwer. 


A  Scotoh  Lady  of  the  Old  School. 

As  soon  as  she  recognized  Mr.  Douglas,  she  welcomed  him  with 
much  cordiality,  shook  him  long  and  heartily  by  the  hand,  patted 
him  on  the  back,  looked  into  his  face  with  much  seeming  satisfac- 
tion ;  and,  in  short,  gave  all  the  demonstration  of  gladness  usual 
with  gentlewoman  of  a  certain  age.  Her  pleasure,  however, 
appeared  to  be  rather  an  impromptu  than  a  habitual  feeling ;  for,  as 
the  surprise  wore  off,  her  visage  resumed  its  harsh  and  sarcastic 
expression,  and  she  seemed  eager  to  efface  any  agreeable  impres- 
sion her  reception  might  have  excited. 

"And  wha  thought  o' seein' ye  enoo?"  said  she,  in  a  quick, 
gabbling  voice ;  u  what's  brought  you  to  the  toon  ?  Are  you  come 
to  spend  your  honest  faither's  siller  ere  he'  s  weel  cauld  in  his  grave, 
puir  ma 

Mr.  Douglas  explained  that  it  was  on  account  of  his  niece's 
health. 

14  Health  1"  repeat-  'li  a  sardonic  smile,  "  it  wad  make 

an  ool  laugh  to  hear  the  wark  that  *s  made  aboot  yonng  fowk's 
health  noo-a-days.  I  wonder  what  ye  're  a'  made  o',"  grasping 
Mary's  arm  in  her  great  bony  hand  —  "a  wheen  puir  feckless 
windlestraes — ye  maun  awa  to  England  for  your  healths.  Set  ye 
up!  I  wonder  what  cam  o'  the  lasses  i'  my  time  that  bute 
[behovedj  to  bide  at  hame?  And  whilk  o'  ye,  I  sude  lik»-  to  ken, 
tx,  like  me.     Health  I  he,  \u> !  '' 

Mary,  glad  of  a  pretense  to  indulge  the  mirth  the  old  lady's  man- 
ner and  appearance  had  excited,  joined  most  heartily  in  the  laugh. 


370  i:.\ ;Ei;riSE8  IN  ELOCUTION. 

"Tak  aff  yer  bannet,  bairn,  an'  let  me  see  your  face;  wha  can 
teU  what  like  ye  are  wi'  that  snule  o'  a  thing  on  your  bead?* 
Then  after  taking  an  accurate  survey  of  her  face,  she  pushed  padc 
her  pelisse:  "  Weel  its  ae  mercy  I  see  ye  hae  neither  the  red  head 
nor  the  muckle  cuite  o'  the  Douglases.  I  kenna  whuther  your 
faither  has  them  or  no.  I  ne'er  set  een  on  him  :  neither  him  nor 
his  braw  leddy  thought  it  worth  their  while  to  speer  after  me ;  but 
I  was  at  nae  loss,  by  a'  accounts." 

"  You  have  not  asked  after  any  of  your  Glenfern  friends,"  said 
Mr.  Douglas,  hoping  to  touch  a  more  sympathetic  chord. 

'Time  enough  —  wall  ye  let  me  draw  my  breath,  man  —  fowk 
canna  say  awthing  at  ance.  An'  ye  bute  to  hae  an  Inglish  wife  tu, 
a  Scotch  lass  wadna  ser'  ye.     A  I  'm  warran'  it  ane  o' 

the  warlds  wonders  —  it'  s  been  unca  long  o'  comin'  —  he,  he  I 

"  He  has  begun  life  under  very  melancholy  auspices,  poor  fel- 
low !"  said  Mr.  Douglas,  in  allusion  to  his  father's  death. 

"An'  wha's  faut  was  that?  I  ne'er  heard  tell  o'  the  like  o't,  to 
hae  the  bairn  kirsened  an'  its  grandfather  dein'  1  But  fowk  are 
naither  born,  nor  kirsened,  nor  do  they  wed  or  dee  as  they  used  to 
du  —  awthing  *s  changed." 

"You  must  indeed,  have  witnessed  many  changes?"  observed 
Mr.  Douglas  rather  at  a  loss  how  to  utter  any  thing  of  a  concilia- 
tory nature. 

"Changes!  —  weel  a  wat  I  sometimes  wonder  if  it 's  the  same 
warld,  an'  if  it  's  my  ain  heed  that 's  upon  my  shoothers." 

"  But  with  these  changes  you  must  also  have  seen  many  improve- 
ments?" said  Mary  in  a  tone  of  diffidence. 

"Impruvments?"  turning  sharply  round  upon  her  ;  "what  ken 
ye  about  improvements  bairn?  A  bonny  improvement,  or  ens  no, 
to  see  tyleyors  and  sclaters  leavin'  whar  I  mind  jewks  and  yerls. 
An'  that  great  glowerin'  New  Toon  there,"  pointing  out  of  her 
windows,  "  whar  I  used  to  sit  an'  look  out  at  bonny  green  parks, 
an'  see  the  coos  milket,  an'  the  bits  o'  bairnies  rowin'  an'  tumlin', 
an'  the  lasses  trampin'  i'  their  tubs — what  see  I  noo  but  stane  an' 
lime,  an'  stoor  an'  dirt,  an'  idle  cheels  an'  dinkit  out  madams 
prancin'.     Improvements,  indeed." 

Mary  found  she  was  not  likely  to  advance  her  uncle's  fortune  by 
the  judiciousness  of  her  remarks,  therefore  prudently  resolved  to 
hazard  no  more.     Mr.  Douglas,  who  was  more  au  fait  to  the  preju- 


EX3MOISM8  l.x   tiLOCUTIOm 

nd    who   was   alwi./s   hiiium  d    with   her  bitter 
■ks,  when  they  did  not  touch  himself,  encouraged  1 K 
the  conversation  by  some  observation  on  the  prevailing  inan- 

"MainersI"  repeated  she,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh;  "what 
ca'  ye  mainers  noo,  for  I  dinna  ken?  ilk  ane  gangs  bang  intill  their 
neebcr  s  hoos,  an'  bang  oot  o't,  as  it  war  a  chynge-hoos ;  an'  as  for 
the  maister  o't,  he  's  no  o'  sae  muckle  vaalu  as  the  flunky  ahint  his 
chyre.  I'  my  gramlfaither's  time,  as  I  hae  heard  him  tell,  ilka 
maister  o'  a  family  had  his  ain  sate  in  his  ain  boos;  ay  I  an'  sat  wi 
his  hat  on  his  heed  afore  the  best  o'  the  land,  an'  had  his  ain  dish, 
an'  was  ay  helpit  first,  an'  keepit  up  his  owthority  as  a  man  sude 
du.  Paurents  war  paurents  then  —  bairns  dardna  set  up  their  gabs 
afore  thern  than  as  they  du  noo.  They  ne'er  presumed  to  say  their 
war  their  ain  i'  thae  days  —  wife  an'  servants,  reteeners  an' 
childer,  a'  trummelt  i'  the  presence  o'  their  heed." 

Here  a  long  pinch  of  snuff  canted  a  pause  in  the  old  lady's 

-rue.        *        * 
Mr.  I  )ouglas  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  rise  and  take  V 
1  >.  what's   takin   ye  awa',  Archie,  in  sic  a  hurry?     Sit  doon 
there,"  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  "an*  rest  ye,  an'  tak  a  glass  o' 
an'  a  bit  breed;  or  maybe,"  turning  to  Mary,  "ye  wad  rather 
hae  a  drap  broth  to  warm  ye?     What  gars  ye  look  sae  blae,  bairn  ? 
I'm  sure  it  's  no  cauld ;  but  ye  're  just  like  the  lave :  ye  gang  a' 
skiltin'  about  the  streets  half  naked,  an'  then  ye  maun  sit  and  birsle 
yoursels  afore  the  fire  at  hame." 

She  had  now  shuffled  along  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and 
-,  took    out  wine   and  a  plateful  of  various-shaped 
articles  of  bread,  which  she  handed  to  Mary. 

"  Hae,  bairn  —  tak  a  cookie — tak  it  up  —  what  are  you  fcei*d 
fori  it'll  no  bite  ye.  ye  Glenfern,  an'  your  wife,  an'  your 

■   .  it  *8  no  had  a  very  chancy  outset,  weel  a  wat." 
The  wine  being  drank,  and  the  cookies  discussed,  Mr.  Douglas 
Bade  ■aether  attempt  to  withdraw,  but  in  vain. 

"Carina  ye  sit  still  a  wee  man,  an   let  me  speer  after  my  auld 
'ilenfern?     Hoo 's  Grizzy,  an' Jaeky,  an' Nicky  ?  —  ayo 
In1  awa'  at  the  peels  an'  the  drogfl  —  he,  he!     I  ne'er  swal- 
lowed a  peel  ii  ju'  my  days,  an'  see  an  onv  o 
i   11  rin  a  rant  wi'  me  whan  they  're  naur  ! 


372  EmMBCJBWB  IN  ElocVTIOX. 

Mr.  Douglas  here  paid  some  compliments  upon  her  appearance 
which  were  pretty  graciously  r  and  added  that  he  was  the 

bearer  of  a  ;i  Ms  aunt  Grizzy,  which  he  would  send  along 

with  a  roebuck  and  brace  of  moor-game. 

"Gin  your  roebuck  's  nae  better  than  your  last,  atweel  it  *s  no 
worth  the  sendin' :  poor  dry  fushinless  dirt,  no  worth  thechowin'; 
weel  a  wat  I  begrudged  my  t.-.th  on  't  Your  muirfowl  war  nay 
that  ill,  but  they  're  no  worth  the  carryin' ;  they  're  doug  cheap  i* 
the  market  enoo,  bo  it  's  nae  great  compliment  Gin  ye  had 
brought  me  a  leg  o'  gude  mutton,  or  a  cauler  sawmont,  there  would 
hae  been  some  sense  in  't;  but  ye're  ane  o'  the  fowk  tli.it  'II  ne  'er 
hanj  yourself  wi'  your  presents;  it 's  but  the  pickle  powther  they 
••,  an'  I'se  warran'  yo  're  tliinkin'  mair  o'  your  ain  diversion 
than  o'  my  stamick  whan  ye  're  at  the  shootin'  <»'  them  puir  be 

M  .  Douglas  had  borne  the  various  indignities  levelled   a 
himself  and  his  family  with  a  philosophy  that  had  no  parallel  in  his 
life  before,  but  to  this  attack  upon  hi  -  not  proof.     His 

color  r  ves  flashed  fire,  and  something  resembling  an  oath 

antly  toward  the  <fc 

11  friend,  however,  was  too  nimble  for  him.  She  stepped 
him.  and,  breaking  into  a  discordant  laugh  as  she  patted  him 
on  the  back:  "So  I  see  ye  're  just  the  auld  man,  Archie  —  aye 
ready  to  tak  the  strums  an'  ye  dinna  get  a'  thing  your  ain  wye. 
Many  a  time  I  had  to  fleech  ye  oot  o'  the  dorts  when  ye  was  a 
callant  Do  ye  mind  hoo  ye  was  affronted  because  I  set  ye  doon 
to  a  cauld  pigeon-pye  an'  a  tanker  o'  tippenny  ae  night  to  your 
lbwerhoors  afore  some  leddies  —  he,  he,  he  1  Weel  a  wat  yere  wife 
maun  hae  her  ain  adoos  to  manage  ye,  for  ye  're  a  cumstairy  chield, 
Archie." 

Mr.  Douglas  still  looked  as  if  he  was  irresolute  whether  to  laugh 
or  be  angry. 

"Come,  come,  sit  ye  doon  there  till  I  speak  to  this  bairn,"  said 
she,  as  she  pulled  Mary  into  an  adjoining  bedchamber,  which  wore 
the  same  aspect  of  chilly  neatness  as  the  one  they  had  quitted. 
Then  pulling  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  she  opened  a 
drawer,  out  of  which  she  took  a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings.  "  Hae, 
bairn,"  said  she,  as  she  stuffed  them  into  Mary's  hand ;  they 
belanged  to  your  faither's  grandmother.  She  was  a  gude  woman, 
an'  had  four-and-tweuty  sons  an'  dochters,  an'  I  wuss  ye  nae  waur 


Exercises  in  Elocvtiln.  378 

fortin  than  just  to  hae  as  mony.  But  mind  ye,"  with  a  shake  of  her 
bony  finger,  "  they  maun  a'  be  Scots.  Gin  I  thought  ye  wad  mairry 
ony  pock-puddin',  fient  head  wad  ye  hae  gotten  free  me.  Noo  had 
your  tongue  and  dinna  deive  me  wi'  thanks,'  almost  pushing  bet 
into  the  parlor  again  :  u  and  sin  ye  're  gawn  awa  the  morn,  I'll  see 
nae  mair  o'  ye  enoo  —  so  fare-ye-weel.  But,  Archie,  ye  maun  come 
an'  tak  your  breakfast  wi  me.  I  hae  muckle  to  say  to  you ;  but 
ye  mauna  be  sae  hard  upon  my  baps  as  ye  used  to  be,"  with  a 
facetious  grin  to  her  mollified  favorite  as  they  shook  hands  and 
oarted.  Mary  Ferrier. 

Break!  Break!  Break! 
Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 
But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voi- ■  -;ill. 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thv  crags,  0  See ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me.  7hnny*on. 


What  is  Life? 
And  what  is  life  ?     An  hour-glass  on  the  run, 
A  mist  retreating  from  the  morning  sun, 
A  busy,  bustling,  still-repeated  dream. 

-:  .  |      A  minute's  pause,  a  moment's  thought 
And  Happiness?     A  boMk  09  die  etl 

That  in  the  act  of  seising  shrinks  to  nought 


874  Kxkhcisks  in  Elocution. 

And  what  is  Hope  ?     The  puffing  gale  of  morn, 
That  robs  each  floweret  of  its  gem  —  and  dies ; 

A  cobweb,  hiding  disappointment's  thorn, 

Which  stings  more  keenly  through  the  thin  disguise. 

And  what  is  Death  ?     Is  still  the  cause  unfound  ? 
That  dark  mysterious  name  of  horrid  sound  ? 

A  long  and  lingering  sleep  the  weary  crave. 
And  Peace  ?     Where  can  its  happiness  abound  ? 

Nowhere  at  all,  save  heaven  and  the  grave. 

Then  what  is  life  ?     When  stripped  of  its  disguise  ? 

A  thing  to  be  desired  it  cannot  be ; 
Since  everything  that  meets  our  foolish  eyes 

Gives  proof  sufficient  of  its  vanity. 
'Tis  but  a  trial  all  must  undergo, 

To  teach  unthankful  mortal  how  to  prize 
That  happiness  vain  man's  denied  to  know, 

Until  he's  called  to  claim  it  in  the  skies,  John  Clare. 


Eemark8  on  Reading- 

"  Reading  is  to  the  mind,"  said  the  Duke  of  Vivonne  to  Louis 
XIV,  u  what  your  partridges  are  to  my  chops."  It  is,  in  fact,  the 
nourishment  of  the  mind  ;  for  by  reading  we  know  our  Creator,  his 
works,  ourselves  chiefly,  and  our  fellow-creatures.  But  this  nour- 
ishment is  easily  converted  into  poison.  Salmasius  had  read  as 
much  as  Grotius,  perhaps  more ;  but  their  different  modes  of  read- 
ing made  the  one  an  enlightened  philosopher,  and  the  other,  to 
speak  plainly,  a  pedant,  puffed  up  with  a  useless  erudition. 

Let  us  read  with  method,  and  propose  to  ourselves  an  end  to 
which  ail  our  studies  may  point.  Through  neglect  of  this  rule, 
gross  ignorance  often  disgraces  great  readers;  who,  by  skipping 
nastily  and  irregularly  from  one  subject  to  another,  render  them- 
selves incapable  of  combining  their  ideas.  So  many  detached  par- 
cels of  knowledge  cannot  form  a  whole.  This  i  nconsistency  weakens 
the  energies  of  the  mind,  creates  in  it  a  dislike  to  application,  and 
even  robs  it  of  the  advantages  of  natural  good  sense. 

Yet  let  us  avoid  the  contrary  extreme,  and  respect  method,  with- 
out rendering  ourselves  its  slaves.  While  we  propose  an  end  in  our 
reading,  let  not  this  end  be  too  remote ;  and  when  once  we  have 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  375 

attained  it,  let  our  attention  be  directed  to  a  different  subject  In- 
constancy weakens  the  understanding;  a  long  and  exclusive  appli- 
cation to  a  single  object  hardens  and  contracts  it.  Our  ideas  no 
longer  change  easily  into  a  different  channel,  and  the  course  of  read- 
ing to  which  we  have  too  long  accustomed  ourselves  is  the  only 
one  that  we  can  pursue  with  pleasure. 

We  ought,  besides,  to  be  careful  not  to  make  the  order  of  our 
thoughts  subservient  to  that  of  our  subjects;  this  would  be  to  sacri- 
fice the  principle  to  the  accessory.  The  use  of  our  reading  is  to  aid 
us  b  thinking.  The  perusal  of  a  particular  work  gives  birth,  per- 
haps, to  ideas  unconnected  with  the  subject  of  which  it  treats.  I 
to  pursue  these  ideas;  they  withdraw  me  from  my  pro- 
posed plan  of  reading,  and  throw  me  into  a  new  track,  and  from 
thence,  perhaps,  into  a  second  and  a  third.  At  length  I  begin  to 
perceive  whither  my  researches  tend.  Their  result,  perhaps,  may 
be  profitable;  it  is  worth  while  to  try;  whereas, had  I  followed  the 
high  road,  I  should  not  have  been  able,  at  the  end  of  my  long  jour- 
ney, to  retrace  the  progress  of  my  thoughts. 

This  plan  of  reading  is  not  applicable  to  our  early  studies,  since 
the  severest  method  is  scarcely  sufficient  to  make  us  conceive  objects 
altogether  new.  Neither  can  it  be  adopted  by  those  who  read  in 
order  to  write,  and  who  ought  to  dwell  on  their  subject  till  they 
have  sounded  its  depths.  These  reflections,  however,  I  do  not 
absolutely  warrant.  On  the  supposition  that  they  are  just,  they 
may  be  so,  perhaps,  for  myself  only.  The  constitution  of  minds 
differs  like  that  of  bodies;  the  same  regimen  will  not  suit  all  Each 
individual  ought  to  study  his  own. 

To  read  with  attention,  exactly  to  define  the  expressions  of  our 
author,  never  to  admit  a  conclusion  without  comprehending  its  rea- 
son, often  to  pause,  reflect,  and  interrogate  ourselves, — these  are  so 
many  advices  which  it  is  easy  to  give,  but  difficult  to  follow.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  that  almost  evangelical  maxim  of  forgetting 
fciend^  country,  religion,  of  giving  merit  its  due  praise,  and  embrac- 
ing truth  wherever  it  is  to  be  found. 

But  what  ought  we  to  read?  Each  individual  must  answer  this 
question  for  himself,  agreeably  to  the  object  of  his  studio*  The 
only  general  precept  that  I  would  venture  to  give,  is  that  of  Pliny, 
"to  read  mueh.  rather  than  many  things;"  to  make  a  careful 
selection  of  the  best  works,  and  to  render  them  familiar  to  us  by 
attentive  ai.  1  perusals.  Gibbon. 


•fcl  EX  ri;  <  18MB  IN  ELOCUTION. 

Scene  from  "  Virginitta." 
Amos,  Claudius  and  Lictors. 

Appius.  Well,  Claudius,  are  the  forces 
At  hand? 

Claudius.  They  are,  and  timely,  too ;  the  people 
Are  in  unwonted  ferment 

App.  There's  something  awes  me  at 
The  thought  of  looking  on  her  father  1 

Claud   Look 
Upon  her,  my  AppiusI     Fix  your  gaze  upon 
The  treasures  of  her  beauty,  nor  avert  it 
Till  they  are  thine.     Haste!     Your  tribunal! 
Haste!  [A ppiub  ascends  the  tribunal 

[Enter  Numitorh's,    Icilius,  Lucius,  Citizens,  Virginius  leading  his 
daughter,  Skrvia  and  Citizens.     A  dead  silence  prevails.) 

Virginius.  Does  no  one  speak  ?     I  am  defendant  here. 
Is  silence  my  opponent ?     Fit  opponent 
To  plead  a  cause  too  foul  for  speech !     What  brow 
Shameless  gives  front  to  this  most  valiant  cause, 
That  tries  its  prowess  'gainst  the  honor  of 
A  girl,  yet  lacks  the  wit  to  know,  that  he 
Who  casts  off  shame,  should  likewise  cast  off  fear  — 
And  on  the  verge  o'  the  combat  wants  the  nerve 
To  stammer  forth  the  signal  ? 

App.  You  had  bettor, 
Virginius,  wear  am.ther  kind  of  carnage; 
This  is  not  of  the  fashion  that  will  serve  you. 

Vir.  The  fashion,  Appius!     Appius  Claudius  tell  me 
The  fashion  it  becomes  a  man  to  speak  in, 
Whose  property  in  his  own  child  —  the  offspring 
Of  his  own  body,  near  to  him  as  is 
His  hand,  his  arm  —  yea,  nearer  —  closer  far, 
Knit  to  his  heart  —  I  say,  who  has  his  property 
In  such  a  thing,  the  very  self  of  himself, 
Disputed  —  and  I'll  speak  so,  Appius  Claudius* 
I'll  speak  so  —  Pray  ycu  tutor  me  I 

App.  Stand  forth 
Claudius  1     If  you  lay  claim  to  any  interest 


i:\EitcisKs  in  Elocution,  377 

In  the  question  now  before  us,  speak;  if  not, 
on  some  other  cause. 

Claud.  Most  noble  Appius 

Vir.  And  are  you  the  man 
That  claims  ray  daughter  for  his  slave?  —  Look  at  me 
And  I  will  give  her  to  thee. 

Claud.  She  is  mine,  then: 
>t  look  at  you? 

Vir.  Your  eye  does,  truly, 
But  not  your  soul.     I  see  it  through  your  eye 
Shifting  and  shrinking  —  turning  every  way 
To  shun  me.     You  surprise  me,  that  your  eye, 
So  long  the  bully  of  its  master,  knows  not 
To  put  a  proper  face  upon  a  lie, 
But  gives  the  port  of  impudence  to  falsehood 
When  it  would  pass  it  off  for  truth.     Your  soul 
Dares  as  soon  shew  its  face  to  me.     Go  on, 
I  had  forgot ;  the  fashion  of  my  speech 
May  not  please  Appius  Claudius. 

Claud.  I  demand 
Protection  of  the  Decemvir ! 

App.  You  shall  have  it. 

Vir.  Doubtless  I 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  Lictors  1     What's 
Your  plea  ?     You  say  the  girl's  your  slave.     Produce 
Your  proofs. 

Claud.  My  proof  is  here,  which,  if  they  can, 
Let  them  confront.     The  mother  of  the  girl 

[Vihginius,  stepping  forward,  is  withheld  by  Numitorius, 
Kumitorius.    Hold,  brother  I     Hear  them  out,  or  suffer  me 
To  speak. 

Vir.  Man,  I  must  speak,  or  else  go  mad! 
And  if  I  do  go  nnid,  what  then  will  hold  me 
From  speaking?     She  was  thy  sister,  too! 

lk  thotL     I'll  try,  and  if  I  can, 
Be  silent  [Retire*. 

Num.  Will  she  swear  she  is  her  child  ? 


378  krcises  in  Elocution. 

Yir.  {starting  forward.)  To  be  sure  she  will  —  a  most  wise  ques- 
tion thatl 
Is  she  not  his  slave  ?     Will  his  tongue  lie  for  him  — 
Or  his  hand  steal  —  or  the  finger  of  his  hand 
Beckon  or  point,  or  shut,  or  open  for  him  ? 
To  ask  him  if  she'll  swear!     Will  she  walk  or  run, 
Sing,  dance,  or  wag  her  head;  do  anything 
That  is  most  easy  done  ?    She'll  as  soon  swear  I 
What  mockery  it  is  to  have  one's  life 
In  jeopardy  by  such  a  barefaced  trick! 
Is  it  to  be  endured  ?     I  do  protest 
Dst  her  oath! 

App.  No  law  in  Rome,  Virgin  ins, 
Seconds  you.     If  she  swear  the  girl's  her  child, 
The  evidence  is  good,  unless  confronted 
By  better  evidence.     Look  you  to  that, 
Virgin ius.     I  shall  take  the  woman's  oath. 
;inin.  Icilius! 

Icilius.  Fear  not,  love ;  a  thousand  oaths 
Will  answer  her. 

App.  You  swear  the  girl's  your  child, 
And  that  you  sold  her  to  Virginius'  wife, 
Who  passed  her  for  her  own.     Is  that  your  oath  ? 

Slave.  It  is  my  oath. 

App.  Your  answer  now,  Virginius. 

Vtr.  Here  it  is  I  [Brings  Virginia  forward* 

Is  this  the  daughter  of  a  slave  ?     I  know 
'Tis  not  with  men  as  shrubs  and  trees,  that  by 
The  shoot  you  know  the  rank  and  order  of 
The  stem.     Yet  who  from  such  a  stem  would  look 
For  such  a  shoot.     My  witnesses  are  these  - 
The  relatives  and  friends  of  Numitoria! 
Speak  for  me,  my  friends; 
Have  I  not  spoke  the  truth  ? 

Women  and  Citizens.  You  have,  Virginius. 

App.  Silence!     Keep. silence  there!     No  more  of  that! 
Fou're  lery  ready  for  a  tumult,  citizens. 

[Ttoojjs  appear  behind. 


/■:.\j:i:cises  in  Elocution.  370 

I,  make  way  to  let  these  troops  advance  I 
We  have  had  a  taste  of  your  forbearance,  masters, 
And  wish  not  for  another. 

Vir.  Troops  in  the  Forum? 

App.  Virginius  have  you  spoken? 

Vir.  If  you  have  heard  me, 
I  have ;  If  not,  I'll  speak  again. 

App.  You  need  not, 

:iius  ;  I  had  evidence  to  give, 
Which,  should  you  speak  a  hundred  times  again, 
Would  make  your  pleading  vain. 

Vir.  Your  hand,  Virginia  I 
Stand  close  to  me.  [Aside. 

App.  My  conscience  will  not  let  me 
Be  silent     Tis  notorious  to  you  all, 
That  Claudius'  father  at  his  death,  declared  me 
The  guardian  of  his  son.     This  cheat  has  long 
Been  known  to  me.     I  know  the  girl  is  not 
Virginius'  daughter. 

Vir.  Join  your  fi  iends,  Icilius, 
And  leave  Virginia  to  my  care.  \Aside. 

App.  The  justice 
I  should  have  done  my  client  unrequired, 
Now  cited  by  him,  how  shall  I  refuse  ? 

Vir.  Don't  tremble,  girl  I  don't  tremble.  {Aside. 

App.  Virginius, 
I  feel  for  you  ;  but  though  you  were  my  father, 
The  majesty  of  justice  should  be  sacred  — 
Claudius  must  take  Virginia  home  with  him. 

Vir.  And  if  he  must,  I  should  advise  him,  Appiut, 
To  take  her  home  in  time,  before  his  guardian 
Complete  the  violation  which  his  eyes 
Already  have  begun, — friends!  fellow-citizens! 
Look  not  on  Claudius  —  look  on  your  Decemvir! 
He  is  the  master  claims  Virginia ! 
The  tongues  that  told  him  she  was  not  my  child 
Ar<-  these  —  the  costly  charms  he  cannot  purchase 
Exceut  by  making  her  the  slave  of  Claudius, 


380  h'xKRcisES  in  Elocution. 

His  client,  his  purveyor,  that  caters  for 

His  pleasure  —  markets  fur  him  —  picks,  and  scents, 

And  tastes,  that  he  may  banquet  —  serves  him  up 

His  sensual  feast,  and  is  not  now  ashamed, 

In  the  open  common  street  before  your  eyes  — 

Frighting  your  daughters'  and  your  matrons'  cheeks 

With  blushes  they  ne  'er  thought  to  meet  —  to  help  him 

To  the  honor    of  a  Roman  maid !  my  child  1 

Who  now  clings  to  me,  as  you  see,  as  if 

This  second  Tarquin  had  already  coiled 

.;  ms  around  her.     Look  upon  her  Romans  ! 
Befriend  her  I  succor  her !  see  her  not  polluted 
Before  her  father's  eyes  I  —  He  is  but  one. 
Tear  her  from  Appius  and  his  Lictors  while 
She  is  unstained.  —  Tour  hands  1  your  hands  I  your  hands  I 

Citizen*.  They  are  yours,  Virginius. 

App.  Keep  the  people  back  — 
Support  ray  Lictors  soldiers !     Seize  the  girl, 
And  drive  the  people  back. 

IcQius.  Down  with  the  slaves ! 
\  The  people  make  a  show  of  resistance  ;   but  upon  the  advance  of  th4 

soldiers,  retreat,  and  leave  Icilius,  Virginius  and  his  daughter,  etc^ 

in  the  hands  of  Appius  and  his  party. 
Deserted !  —  Cowards  1  traitors !     Let  me  free 
But  for  a  moment  1     I  relied  on  you  ; 
Had  I  relied  upou  myself  alone, 
I  had  kept  them  still  at  bay  I     I  kneel  to  you  — 
Let  me  but  loose  a  moment,  if  'tis  only 
To  rush  upon  your  swords. 

Vir.  Icilius,  peace ! 
You  see  how  'tis,  we  are  deserted,  left 
Alone  by  our  friends,  surrounded  by  our  enemiet, 
Nerveless  and  helpless. 

App.  Separate  them,  Lictors! 

Vtr.  Let  them  forbear  awhile,  I  pray  you,  Appius  : 
It  is  not  very  easy.     Though  her  arms 
Are  tender,  yet  the  hold  is  strong  by  which 
She  grasps  me,  Appius  —  forcing  them  will  hurt  them  ; 


Exercises  i.y  I-J locution.  381 

They  '11  soon  unclasp  themselves.     Wait  but  a  little  — 
You  know  you  're  sure  of  her! 

App.  I  have  not  time 
To  idle  with  thee;  give  her  to  my  Lictors.  * 

Vir.  Appius,  I  pray  you  wait!     If  she  is  not 
My  child,  she  hath  been  like  a  chil«i  to  me 
For  fifteen  years.     If  I  am  not  her  father, 
I  have  been  like  a  father  to  her,  Appius, 
For  even  such  a  time.     They  that  have  lived 
So  long  a  time  together,  in  so  mar 
And  dear  society,  may  be  allowed 
A  little  time  for  parting.     Let  me  take 
The  maid  aside,  I  pray  you,  and  confer 
A  moment  with  her  nurse;  perhaps  she  '11  give  me 
Some  token  will  unloose  a  tie  so  twined 
And  knotted  round  my  heart,  that,  if  you  break  it, 
My  heart  breaks  with  it 

App.  Have  your  wish.     Be  briefl 
Lictors,  look  to  them. 

Virginia.  Do  you  go  from  me? 
Do  you  leave?     Father  !  Father  ! 

Vir.  No,  my  child  — 
No,  my  Virginia  —  come  along  with  m<\ 

Virginia.  Will  you  not  leave  me?     Will  you  take  me  with  you? 
Will  you  take  me  home  again  ?     0,  bless  you  ?  bless  you  ! 
My  father  1  my  dear  father !     Art  thou  not 
My  father  ? 
[Viroinids,  perfectly  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  looks  anxiously  round  the 

Forum;   at  length  his  eye  fulls  on  a  butcher's  stall,  with  a  knife 

upon  it. 

Vir.  This  way,  my  child  —  No,  no  ;  I  am  not  going 
To  have  thee,  my  Virginia!     I  '11  not  leave  thee. 

App.  Keep  back  the  people,  soldiers  1     Let  them  not 
Approach  VirginiusI     Keep  the  people  back. 

[Vtrginiua  secures  the  knife. 
Well,  have  you  done  ? 

Vir.  Short  time  for  converse,  Appius, 
But  I  have. 


382  JJxkrcises  in  Elocution. 

App.  I  hope  you  are  satisfied. 

Vir.  I  am  — 
I  am  —  that  she  is  my  daughter ! 

App.  Take  her,  Lictors ! 

j  Virginia  shrieks,  and /alls  half-dead  upon  her  father's  shoulder.] 

Vir.  Another  moment,  pray  you.     Bear  with  me 
A  little  —  'Tis  my  last  embrace.     'Twon't  try 
Your  patience  beyond  bearing,  if  you  're  a  man  I 
Lengthen  it  as  I  may,  I  cannot  make  it 

Long.     My  dear  child  1     My  dear  Virginia  I  [Kissing  her 

There  is  only  one  way  to  save  thine  honor  1 
*Tis  this. 
[Stabs  hert  and  draws  out  the  knife.     Icilius  breaks  from  the  soldiers 

that  held  him,  and  catches  her.\ 
Lo,  Appius,  with  this  innocent  blood 
I  do  devote  thee  to  the  infernal  gods! 
Make  way  there  1 

App.  Stop  him  1     Seize  him  1 

Fir.  If  they  dare 
To  tempt  the  desperate  weapon  that  is  maddened 
With  drinking  my  daughter's  blood,  why,  let  them : 
It  rushes  in  amongst  them.     Way  there  1     Way  ! 

[Exit  through  the  soldiers. 

James  Sheridan  Knowlts 

From  the  Dodge  Olub:  or,  Italy  in  MDCOCLIX. 

La  Oca  did  not  speak  the  best  English  in  the  world ;  yet  that 
could  not  account  for  all  the  singular  remarks  which  she  made. 
Still  less  could  it  account  for  the  tender  interest  of  her  manner.  She 
had  remarkably  bright  eyes.  Why  wandered  those  eyes  so  often 
to  his,  and  why  did  they  beam  with  such  devotion — beaming  for 
moment  only  to  fall  in  sweet  innocent  confusion  ?  La  Cica  had  the 
most  fascinating  manners,  yet  they  were  often  perplexing  to  the 
Senator's  soul. 

u  The  Countess,"  he  thought,  "  is  a  most  remarkable  fine  woman ; 
but  she  does  use  her  eyes  uncommon,  and  I  do  wish  she  wouldn't 
be  quite  so  demonstrative." 


7/\  in  Elocution,  M 

At  last  the  Senator  came  to  this  conclusion  :     La  Cica  was  de*- 
with  him. 

She  appeared  to  be  a  widow.     Now  if  the  poor  Cica  was  hope- 
lessly in  love,  it  must  be  stopped  at  once.     For  he  was  a  married 
,  and  his  good  lady  6till  lived,  with  a  very  large  family,  moat 
of  the  members  of  which  had  grown  up. 

La  Cica  ought  to  know  this.  She  ought  indeed.  But  let  the 
knowledge  be  given  delicately,  not  abruptly. 

On  the  following  evening  they  walked  ou  the  balcony  of  La  Cica'i 
noble  residence.     She  was  sentimental,  devoted,  charming. 

The  conversation  of  a  fascinating  woman  does  not  look  so  well 
when  reported  as  it  is  when  uttered.  Her  power  is  in  her  tone,  her 
glance,  her  manner.  Who  can  catch  the  evanescent  beauty  of  her 
expression  or  the  deep  tenderness  of  her  well-modulated  voice? 
Who  indeed? 

■  Does  ze  scene  please  you,  my  Senator  ?" 

"Very  much  indeed." 

"Youar  countrymen  haf  tol  me  zey  would  like  to  stay  here 
alloway." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place." 

"  Did  you  aiver  see  any  thin  moaire  loafel'y  ?"  And  the  Countess 
looked  full  in  his  face. 

"  Never,"  said  the  Senator,  earnestly.  The  next  instant  h*» 
blushed.     He  had  been  betrayed  into  a  compliment. 

The  Countess  sighed. 

"  Helas  I  my  Senator,  that  it  is  not  pairmitted  to  moartals  to 
sociate  as  zey  would  laike." 

"  '  Your  Senator,*  "  thought  the  gentlemen  thus  addressed ;  "  how 
fond,  how  tender — poor  thing!  poor  thing!" 

"  T  wish  that  Italy  was  nearer  to  the  States,"  said  he. 

"  B     '•   I  |     iniar  youar  style  of  mind,  so  diflferente  from  ze  Itali- 
ana.     You  are  so  stong — so  nobile.     Yet  would  I  laike  to  see  moar 
poetic  in  you." 

"I  always  loved  poetry,  marm,"  said  the  Senator,  desperately. 

"Ah  —  good  —  nais — e<  at  zat,"  cried  the 

Countess,  with  much  animation.     "  You  would  loafe  it 
you  knew  Italiauo.     Your  langua  ees  not  sufficiente  musicale  for 
poatry." 

17 


384  i:ncisEs  nr  Elocutiox. 

"  It  is  not  so  soft  a  language  as  the  7-talian." 

"  Ah — no  —  not  so  soft*  Very  well.  And  what  iheenka  jou  of 
xe  Italiano?" 

"  The  sweetest  language  I  ever  heard  in  all  my  born  days." 

"  Ah,  now  —  you  hev  not  heard  much  of  ze  Iuliano,  my  Senator. ' 

"  I  have  heard  you  speak  often,"  said  the  Senator,  naively. 

"Ah,  you  compliment  I     I  sot  you  was  aboove  flattera." 

And  the  Countess  playfully  tapped  his  arm  with  her  little  fan. 

*'  What  Ingeli8  poet  do  you  loafe  best?" 

"Poet?  English  poet?"  said  the  Senator,  with  some  surprise. 
"Oh  — why,  marm,  I  think  Watts  is  about  the  best  of  the  lot  I" 

"Watt?  Was  he  a  poet?  I  did  not  know  zat  He  who  in- 
vented ze  stim-injaine?  And  yet  if  he  was  a  poet  it  is  natura!e 
zat  you  loafe  him  best" 

"Steam-engine?    Oh  no!     This  one  was  a  minister." 

"A  meeneestaire?  Ah!  an  abbe?  I  know  him  not.  Yet  I 
haf  read  mos  of  all  youar  poets." 

"  He  made  up  hymns,  marm,  and  psalms  —  for  instance :  '  Watt  3 
Divine  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs.'  " 

"Songs?  Spiriluelle?  Ah,  I  mus  at  once  procuaire  ze  works 
of  Watt  which  was  favorit  poet  of  my  Senator." 

"  A  lady  of  such  intelligence  as  you  would  like  the  poet  Watts," 
said  the  Senator,  firmly.  "  He  is  the  best  known  by  far  of  all  our 
poets." 

"What?  better  zan  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Bairon?  You  mucn 
surprass  me." 

"Better  known  and  better  loved  than  the  whole  lot  Why,  his 
poetry  is  known  by  heart  through  all  England  and  America." 

u  Merciful  Heaven  !  what  you  tell  me!  ees  eet  possibl  1  An  yet 
he  is  not  known  here  efen  by  name.  It  would  please  me  mooch, 
my  Senator,  to  haire  you  make  one  quotatione.  Know  you  Watt? 
Tell  me  some  words  of  his  which  I  may  remembaire." 

"  I  have  a  shocking  bad  memory." 

"Bad  memora!  Oh,  but  you  remember  somethin,  zis  most 
beautiful  charm  nait  —  you  haf  a  nobile  soul  —  you  must  be  aflfecta 
by  beauty  —  by  ze  ideal.     Make  for  me  one  quotatione." 

And  she  rested  her  little  hand  on  the  Senator's  arm,  and  look.vi 
up  imploringly  in  his  face. 


A\  9  in  Elocution.  385 

Tlie  Senator  looked  foolish.     He  felt  even  more  so.     Here  was  a 
\ful  woman,  by  act  and  look  showing  a  tender  interest  in  him. 
exing  —  but  very  flattering  after  all.     So  he  replied: 
ii  will  not  let  me  refuse  you  any  thing." 

"Aha  I  you  are  vera  willin  to  refuse.  It  is  difficulty  for  me  to 
exeitare  youar  regards.  You  are  fill  with  the  grands  ideas.  But 
ccme  —  will  you  spik  for  me  som  from  your  favorit  Watt  ?  " 

■  Well,  if  you  wish  it  so  much,"  said  the  Senator,  kindly,  and  he 
hesitated. 

'Ah  —  I  do  wish  it  so  much  1  " 

44  Ehem  1  " 

"Begin,"  said  the  Countess.  "Behold  me.  I  listen.  I  hear 
cverysin,  and  will  remember  it  forava." 

The  only  thing  that  the  Senator  could  think  of  was  the  verse 
which  had  been  running  in  his  head  for  the  last  few  days,  its 
measured  rhymth  keeping  time  with  every  occupation: 

" '  My  willing  soul  would  stay  — '  " 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  said  the  Countess.  "  I  weesh  to  learn  it 
from  you ; "  and  she  looked  fondly  and  tenderly  up,  but  instantly 
dropped  her  eyes. 

Ma  villina  sol  wooda  sta — '  " 

44  *  In  such  a  frame  as  this,'  "  prompted  the  Senator. 

44  4  E«n  socha  frarnas  zees.'  Wait  —  4  Ma  willina  sol  wooda  sta 
in  socha  frarnas  zees.'  Ah,  appropriat !  but  could  I  hope  zat  you 
were  true  to  zose  lines,  my  Senator  ?     Well  ?  " 

44  4  And  sit  and  sing  herself  away,'  "  said  the  Senator,  in  a  falter- 
ing voice,  and  breaking  out  into  a  cold   perspiration  for  fear  of 
ttin,'  himself  by  such  uncommonly  strong  language. 

44 '  Ansit  ansin  hassaf  awai,' "  repeated  the  Countess,  her  face 
lighting  up  with  a  sweetly  conscious  expression. 

The  Senator  pt 

44 1  —  i'h.-m!     I  fo-: 

btel1 
By." 

44 Ah  nowl  Forget?  I  see  by  your  face — you  desave.  3ay 
on." 

touched  his  nrm  with  both  her  little 
hands,  and  held  it  as  though  she  would  clasp  it 


386  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

"  Have  you  fear?    An,  cruel  I  " 

The  Senator  turned  pale,  but  finding  refusal  impossible,  boldly 
finis! : 

"  '  To  everlasting  bliss '  —  there  1 " 

"  ■  To  aflarlastin  blees  thar.'  Stop.  I  repeat  it  all:  'My  willina 
sol  wooda  sta  in  socha  frame  as  zees,  ansit  ansin  hassaf  awai  to 
aflarlastin  blees  thar.'    Am  I  right?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Senator  meekly. 

"  I  knew  you  were  a  poetic  sola,"  said  the  Countess,  confidingly. 
1  You  air  honesto  —  true  —  you  cannot  desave.  When  you  spik  I 
can  beliv  you.  Ah,  my  Senator  1  an  you  can  spik  zis  poetry  1 — at 
soch  a  toime  I  I  nefare  knew  befoare  eat  you  so  impassione  1  —  an 
you  air  so  artaful  1  You  breeng  re  confersazione  to  beauty  —  to 
poatry  —  to  ze  poet  Watt  —  so  you  may  spik  verses  mos  impas- 
sione! Ah  1  what  do  you  mean  ?  Santissima  madre  I  how  I  wish 
you  spik  Italiano." 

The  Countess  drew  nearer  to  him,  but  her  approach  only  deep- 
ened his  perplexity. 

"How  that  poor  thing  does  love  mel"  sighed  the  Senator. 
"Law  bless  itl  she  can't  help  it  —  can't  help  it  nohow.  She  is 
A  goner;  and  what  can  I  do  ?     I  '11  have  to  leave  Florence." 

The  Countess  was  standing  close  beside  him  in  a  tender  mood 
waiting  for  him  to  break  the  silence.  How  could  he?  He  had 
been  uttering  words  which  sounded  to  her  like  love;  and  she  —  "a 
widow  I  a  widow  1  wretched  man  that  I  am  !  " 

There  was  a  pause.  The  longer  it  lasted  the  more  awkward  tho 
Senator  felt.  What  upon  earth  was  he  to  do  or  say  ?  What 
business  had  he  to  go  and  quote  poetry  to  widows  ?  What  an  old 
fool  he  must  be  1  But  the  Countess  was  very  far  from  feeling 
awkward.  Assuming  an  elegant  attitude  she  looked  up,  her  face 
expressing  the  tenderest  solicitude. 

"  What  ails  my  Senator  ?  " 

"  Why  the  fact  is,  marm  —  I  feel  sad  —  at  leaving  Florence.  I 
nr.ust  go  shortly.  My  wife  has  written  summoning  me  home.  The 
children  are  down  with  the  measles." 

Oh,  base  fabrication  !  Oh,  false  Senator  1  There  wasn't  a  word 
of  truth  in  that  last  remark.  You  spoke  so  because  you  wished 
La  Cica  to  know  that  you  had  a  wife  and  family.  Yet  it  was  very 
badly  done. 


ises  ix  Elocution.  387 

La  Cica  chnv  _  r  her  attitude  nor  her  expression. 

dently  the  existence  of  his  wife,  and  the  melaneholy  situation  of 
his  unfortunate  children,  awaked  no  sympathy. 

"But  my  Senator  —  did  you  not  say  you  wooda  seeng  yousellef 
away  to  iffarllltoon  belees?" 

"Oh,  inarm,  it  was  a  quotation  —  only  a  quotation." 

But  at  this  critical  juncture  the  conversation  was  broken  up  by 
the  arrival  of  a  number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

But  could  the  Senator  have  known  1 

Could  he  have  known  how  and  where  those  words  would  con- 
front him  again ! 


"Do  you  know  La  Cica?"  asked  the  General,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  was  putting  a  home-thrust,  and  speaking  with  uncommon 
ness. 

"  I  do,"  said  the  Senator,  mildly. 

"You  know  her  well?     You  are  one  of  her  intimate  friends?" 

"Ami?" 

"Are  you  not?" 

"  I  am  friendly  with  her.  She  is  an  estimable  woman,  with  much 
feeling  and  penetration"  —  and  a  fond  regret  exhibited  itself  in  the 
face  of  the  speaker. 

"  Well.  Sir,  you  may  as  well  confess.  We  know  you,  Sir.  We 
know  you.  You  are  one  of  the  chosen  associates  of  that  infamous 
Garibaldian  plotter  and  assassin,  whose  hotel  is  in  the  hot-bed  of 
conspiracy  and  revolution.  We  know  you.  Do  you  dare  to  come 
here  and  deny  it  ?" 

"I  did  not  come  here;  I  was  brought.  I  do  not  deny  that  you 
know  me,  though  I  haven't  the  plot  we  of  knowing  you.  But  I  do 
deny  that  I  am  the  associate  of  conspirators." 

"Are  you  not  the  American  whom  La  Cica  so  particularly  distill 
guished  with  her  favor?" 

•  I   .  ;  «•  reason  to  believe  that  she  was  partial  to  me — somewhat.'1 

"  lit-  oonfoneaP  said  the  General  "You  name  from  her  to  this 
place,  communicating  on  the  way  with  her  emissaries." 

"  I  communicated  on  the  way  with  none  but  brigands  among  the 

mountains.     If  they  were  her  emissaries  I  wi-h   her  joy  of  them. 

leans  of  communication,"  said  the  Senator,  while  a  grim  smile 


388  i.'rcises  ay  Elocution. 

passed  over  his  face,  "was  an  iron  crow-bar,  and  my  remarks  left 
some  deep  impression  on  them,  I  do  believe." 

"  Tell  me  now — and  tell  me  truly,"  said  the  General  after  a  pause, 
in  which  he  seemed  trying  to  make  out  whether  the  Senator  wa* 
joking  or  not     u  To  whom  are  you  sent  in  this  city  ?" 

"Sir I  I  warn  you  that  I  will  not  be  trifled  with." 
"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  Senator,  with  no  apparent  excitement,  "  1 
tell  you  that  I  have  come  here  to  no  one.     What  more  can  I  say?' 

*  You  must  confess." 

"I  have  nothing  to  confess," 

*  Sir  1  you  have  mucli  to  confess,"  cried  the  General,  angrily, 
"and  I  will  wring  it  out  of  you.  Beware  how  you  trifle  with  my 
patience.     If  you  wish  to  regain  your  liberty  confess  at  on< 

you  may  escape  your  just  punishment.  But  if  you  refuse,  I'll  shut 
you  up  in  a  dungeon  for  ten  y< 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing.* 

"  What !"  roared  the  General.     "  Won't  I  ?" 

"  You  will  not  On  the  contrary,  you  will  have  to  make  apolo- 
gies for  -  nils."* 

"II  —  Apologies !     Insults." 

The  General  gnawed  his  mustache,  and  his  eyes  blazed  in  fury. 

"You  have  arrested  us  on  a  false  charge,  based  on  some  slander- 
ous or  stupid  information  of  some  of  your  infernal  spies,"  said  the 
Senator.  "  What  right  have  you  to  pry  into  the  private  affairs  of 
an  American  traveler?     We  have  nothing  to  do  with  you." 

"You  are  associated  with  conspirators.  You  are  charged  with 
treasonable  correspondence  with  rebels.  You  countenanced  revolu- 
tion in  Florence.  You  openly  took  part  with  Republicans.  You 
are  a  notorious  friend  of  La  Cica.  And  you  came  here  with  the 
intention  of  fomenting  treason  in  Venice  1" 

■  Whoever  told  you  that,"  replied  the  Senator,  "  told  miserable 
lies  --  most  horrid  lies.  I  am  no  emissary  of  any  party.  I  am  a 
private  traveler." 

"  Sir,  we  have  correspondents  in  Florence  on  whom  we  can  rely 
better  than  on  you.     They  watched  you." 

"Then  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  dismiss  those  correspond- 
ents and  get  rogues  who  have  half  an  idea." 


/.xhh'fSEs  in  Elocution.  38:) 

"Sir,  I  tell  you  that  they  watched  you  well     You  had  1 

Your  antecedent^  in  Florence  are  known.    You  are  in 
a  position  of  imminent  danger.     I  tell  you  —  beware!" 

The  General  said   this  in  an  awful   voice,  which  was  meant  to 
r  into  tli*'  soul  of  his  captive.     The  Senator  looked  back 
into  h  ith  an  expression  of  calm  scorn.     His  form  seemed 

to  grow  larger,  and  his  eyes  dilated  as  he  spoke: 

"Then  you,  General,  I  tell  you  —  beware/  Do  you  know  who 
you've  got  hold  of? — No  conspirator;  no  contemptible  /talian  ban- 
dit, or  Dutchman  either;  but  an  American  citizen.  Your  Government 
:  ready  tried  the  temper  of  Americans  on  one  or  two  remarkable 
occasions.  Don't  try  it  on  a  third  time,  and  don't  try  it  on  with 
me.  Since  you  want  to  know  who  I  am,  I'll  tell  you.  I,  Sir,  am 
an  American  Senator.  I  take  an  active  and  prominent  part  in  the 
government  of  that  great  and  glorious  country.  I  represent  a  con- 
stituency of  several  hundred  thousand.  Ycu  tell  me  to  beware.  I 
tell  you  —  Beware!  for,  if  you  don't  let  me  go,  you'll  have  to  give 
me  up  at  the  cannon's  mouth.  If  you  don't  let  me  off  by  evening 
I  won't  go  at  all  till  I  am  delivered  up  with  humble  and  ample 
apologies,  both  to  us  and  to  our  country,  whom  you  have  insulted 
in  our  pers 

.  you  are  bold!" 

"  Bold  I  Send  for  the  American  Consul  of  this  city  and  see  if  he 
don't  corroborate  this.  But  you  had  better  make  haste,  for  if  you 
subject  me  to  further  disgrace  it  will  be  the  worse  for  your  Govern- 
in. nt,  and  particularly  for  you,  niv  friend.  You'll  have  the  town 
battered  down  about  your  ears.  Don't  get  another  nation  down  on 
you,  and  above  all,  don't  let  that  nation  be  the  American.  What  I 
tell  you  is  the  solemn  truth,  and  if  you  don't  mind  it  you  will  know 
it  some  day  to  your  sorrow." 

Whatever  the  cause  may  have  been  the  company  present,  inchxl- 

even  the  Qenera),  win-  impressed  by  the  Senator's  words.     The 

announcement  of  hit  dignity;  the  venerable  title  of  Senator;  th 

>n  of  his  "constituency,"  a  word  the  more  formidable  from 

not  being  at  all  understood  —  all  combined  to  fill  them  with  respect 

So  at  his  DfOpooal  to  send  for  th-  il   the  General 

orders  to  a  messenger  who  w.-nt  off  at  once  in  search  of  that 
:iary. 


390  EXMBCISBS  IX  ELOCUTION. 

The  American  Consul  soon  made  his  appearance.  Upon  entering 
the  hall  he  cast  a  rapid  look  around,  and  seemed  surprised  at  so 
august  a  tribunal,  for  in  the  General's  martial  form  he  saw  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Austrian  Commandant. 

The  Consul  bowed  and  then  looked  at  the  prisoners.  As  his  eye 
fell  upon  the  Senator  it  lighted  up,  and  his  face  assumed  an  expres- 
sion of  the  most  friendly  interest.  Evidently  a  recognition.  The 
Austrian  Commandant  addressed  the  Consul  directly  in  German. 

"Do  you  know  the  prisonei 

"I  know  (MM  of  thrm." 

"II<-  is  here  under  a  very  heavy  accusation.  I  have  well  sub- 
stantiated charges  by  which  he  is  implicated  in  treason  and  con- 
spiracy. He  has  been  connected  with  Revolutionists  of  the  worst 
stamp  in  Florence,  and  there  is  strong  proof  that  he  has  come  In  ro 
to  communicate  with  Revolutionists  in  this  city." 

"  Who  accuses  him  of  this?     Are  they  here?" 

"  No,  but  they  have  written  from  Florence  warning  me  of  his 
journey  here." 

"Does  the  prisoner  conf 

"  Of  course  not.  He  denies.  He  requested  me  to  send  for  you. 
I  don't  want  to  be  unjust,  so  if  you  have  anything  to  say,  say  on." 

u  These  charges  are  impossible." 

"Impossible?" 

"He*  is  altogether  a  different  man  from  what  you  suppose.  He 
is  an  eminent  member  of  the  American  Senate.  Any  charges  made 
against  one  like  him  will  have  to  be  well  substantiated;  and  any 
injury  done  to  him  will  be  dangerous  in  the  highest  degree.  Unless 
you  have  undeniable  proofs  of  his  guilt  it  will  be  best  to  free  him  at 
once  —  or  else  —  " 

"Or  else  what?" 

"  Or  else  there  will  be  very  grave  complications." 

The  Commandant  looked  doubtful.  The  others  impassive.  But- 
tons and  Dick  interested.  The  Senator  calm.  Again  the  Com- 
mandant turned  to  the  Senator,  his  remarks  being  interpreted  as 
before. 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  were  so  particularly  intimate  with 
all  the  Revolutionists  in  Florence,  and  an  habitue  of  La  Ciccis  salon? 
that  your  mission  was  well  known  throughout  the  city?  that  you 


/■:.\r!:rrsES  tn  Elocuti*  391 

publicly  acknowledged  the  Florentine  rebellion  in  a  speech?  that 
the  people  carried  you  home  in  triumph  ?  and  that  immediately 
before  leaving  you  received  private  instructions  from  La  Cicaf" 

"To  your  questions,"  said  the  Senator,  with  unabated  dignity, 
"  I  will  reply  in  brief:  First,  I  am  a  free  and  independent  citizen 
of  the  great  and  glorious  American  Republic.     If  I  associated  with 
utionista  in  Florence,  I  did  so  because  I  am  accustomed  to 
choose  my  own  society,  and  not  to  recognize  any  law  or  any  mas- 
t  ir  that  can  forbid  my  doing  so.     I  deny,  however,  that  I  was  in 
any  way  connected  with  plots,  rebellions  or  conspiracies.     Secondly, 
I  was  friendly  with  the  Countess  because  I  considered  her  a  most 
remarkably  fine  woman,  and  because  she  showed  a  disposition  to 
be  friendly  with   me  —  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.     Thirdly.  I 
have  no  mission  of  any  kind  whatever.     I  am  a  traveler  for  self- 
improvement     I   have  no  business,  political    or   commercial.     So 
that    my  mi-.-ion  could  not  have  been  known.     If  people  talked 
about  me   they   talked   nonsense.     Fourthly,  I  confess  I  made  a 
li,  but  what  of  that?     It's  not  the  first  time,  by  a  long  chalk. 
I  don'!  know  what  you  mean  by  'acknowledging.'     As  a  private 
n  I  congratulated   them   on    their  success,  and  would  do  so 
•gain.     If  a  crowd  calls  on  me  for  a  speech,  I'm  there.     The  people 
•  rence  dragged  me  home  in  a  carriage.     Well,  I  don't  know 
why  they  did  so.     I  can't  help  it  if  people  will  take  possession  of 
me  and  pull  me  about.     Fifthly,  and  lastly,  I  had  an  interview  with 
tad  1 1     Well,  is  it  wrong  for  a  man  to  bid  good-bye 
to  a  friend  ?     I  ask  you,  what  upon  earth  do  you  mean  by  such  a 
charge  as  that?     Do  you  take  me  for  a  puling  infant  ?  " 

"On  that  occasion,"  said  the  Commandant,  she  taught  you  some 
tnyeteriom  to  be  repeated  among  the  Revolu- 

tionists here." 

'   Efarer  did  any  thing  of  the  kind.     That's  a  complete  full-blown 
Ection." 

"11,  •  v  words." 

"  That's  impos  able.     You've  got  hold  of  the  wrong  man  I  see.' 
31  have  tl.'  :inlv. 

And  he  I  rpreter.  Whereupon  the  fi 

gravely  took  out  a  formidable  roll  of  pap.rs  from   his  breast,  and 
opened  it     Every  gesture  was  made  as  if  his  hand  was  heavy  with 
the  weight  of  crushing  proof.     At  last  a  paper  was  produced.     The 
17* 


no?  j:\ercises  in  Elocution. 

Interpreter  took  one  look  at  the  prisoner,  then  glanced  triumphantly 
at  the  Consul,  and  said : 

"  It  is  a  mysterious  language  with  no  apparent  meaning,  nor 
have  I  been  able  to  find  the  key  to  it  in  any  way.  It  is  very  skill- 
fully made,  for  all  the  usual  tests  of  cipher  writing  fail  in  this.  The 
person  who  procure!  it  did  not  get  near  enough  till  the  latter  part 
of  the  interview,  so  that  he  gained  no  explanation  whatever  from 
the  conversation." 

"  Read,"  said  the  Commandant  The  Senator  waited,  wonder, 
ingly.     The  int.  ad: 

"  Ma  ouillina  sola  ouda  sie  ensocefremas  dis  ansit  ansin  assalf  a  ou* 
tu  affia  lastinna  belts." 

Scarcely  had  the  first  words  been  uttered  in  the  Italian  voice  of 
the  reader  than  the  Senator  started  as  though  a  shot  had  struck 
him.  His  face  fashed.  Finally  a  broad  grin  spread  itself  over  h.a 
countenance,  and  down  his  neck,  and  over  his  chest,  and  over  his 
fot  in,  and  into  his  boots,  till  at  last  his  whole  colossal  frame  shook 
with  an  earthquake  of  laughter. 

The  Commandant  stared  and  looked  uneasy.  All  looked  at  the 
Senator — all  with  amazement  —  the  General,  the  Interpreter,  the 
Officials,  the  Guards,  Buttons,  Dick  and  the  American  Consul. 

"Oh  dear!  Oh  dear  /  Oh  oee-ar!  "  cried  the  Senator,  in  the 
intervals  of  his  outrageous  peals  of  laughter.  "  OH  1 "  and  a  new 
peal  followed. 

What  did  all  this  mean?  Was  he  crazy?  Had  misfortunes 
turned  his  brain  ? 

But  at  last  the  Senator,  who  was  always  remarkable  for  his  self- 
control,  recovered  himself.  He  asked  the  Commandant  if  he  might 
be  permitted  to  explain. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  Commandant,  dolefully.  He  was  afraid 
that  the  thing  would  take  a  ridiculous  turn,  and  nothing  is  so  terri- 
ble as  that  to  an  Austrian  official. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  look  at  the  paper?"  asked  the  Senator. 
"  I  will  not  injure  it  at  all." 

The  Interpreter  politely  carried  it  to  him  as  the  Commandant 
uodded.  The  Senator  beckoned  to  the  Consul.  They  then  walked 
up  to  the  Commandant.     All  four  looked  at  the  paper. 

"You  see,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Senator,  drawing  a  lead  pencil 
from  his  pocket,  "  the  Florence  correspondent  has  been  too  sharp 


aXERi  TSKB  j.x  Elocution.  393 

i  explain  nil  this  at  once.     I  was  with  the  Countess,  and  we 
liking  of  poetry.     Now,  I  don't  know  any  more  about  p 
than  a  ho 
-Writ?" 

•'  Well,  siio  insisted  on  my  making  a  quotation.  I  had  to  give  in. 
Tin-  only  One  I  COnld  think  of  was  a  line  or  two  from  Watts." 

■  Waits?     Ah!   I  don't  know  him,"  said  the  interpreter. 
"He  was  a  minister  —  a  parson." 

■  Ah  !  " 

■  So  I  Btid  it  to  her,  and  she  repeated  it.  These  friends  of  yours, 
General,  have  taken  it  down,  but  their  spellin'  is  a  little  unusual," 

the  Senator,  with  a  tremendous  grin  that  threatened  a  new 
outburst, 

"  Look.  Here  is  the  true  key  which  this  gentleman  tried  so  hard 
to  find." 

And  taking  his  pencil  the  Senator  wrote  under  the  strange  words 
the  true  meaning : 

"  My  willing  soul  would  stay 
In  such  a  frame  as  this, 
And  sit  and  ring  herself  away 
To  everlasting  bliss." 

The  interpreter  saw  it  all.     He  looked  profoundly  foolish.     The 
whole  thing  was  clear.     The  Senator's  innocence  was  plain.     He 
turned  to  explain  to  the  Commandant.    The  Consul's  face  exhibited 
a  variety  of  expressions,  over  which   a  broad  grimace  finally  pre- 
dominated, like  sunshine  over  an  April  sky.     In  a  few  won"; 
whole  was  made  plain  to  the  Commandant.     He  looked  annoyed, 
glared  angrily  at  the  Interpreter,  tossed  the  papers  on  the  floor  and 
to  his  feet, 
"Give  these  gentlemen  our  apologies,"  said  he  to  the  Interpi 
44  In  times  of  trouble,  when  St  to  be  held  subject  to  mar- 

tial law,  proceedings  are  abrupt.     Their  own  good  sense,  wi'l.  I 

the  difficulty  cf  our  position." 
James  Dt  Mille — Harper  d-  liroihert 


894  AV  /       -  /  /70.V. 

Pictures  of  Swiss  Scenery  and  of  the  City  of  Venice. 

ind  that  I  first  felt  how  constantly  to  contem- 
plate sublime  creation  e  that 
I  In  -t  began  to  study  nature.  Those  forests  of  black  gigantic  pines 
rising  out  of  the  deep  snows;  those  tall  white  cataracts,  leaping  like 
headstrong  youth  into  the  world,  and  dashing  from  their  precipices, 
as  if  allured  by  the  beautiful  delusion  of  their  own  rainbow  mist; 
those  mighty  clouds  sailing  beneath  my  feet,  or  clinging  to  the 
b  mountains,  or  boiling  up  like  a  spell  from 
the  invisible  and  unfathomable  deptbtj  the  tell  avalanche,  fleet  as  a 
spirit  of  evil,  terrific  when  its  sound  suddenly  breaks  upon  the 
less  terribh  gaze  upon  its  crumb- 
ling and  pallid  frame,  varied  only  by  the  pr<  one  or  two 
blasted  firs ;  the  head  of  a  mountain  loosening  from  its  brother 
;  up,  in  the  roar  of  its  rapid  rush,  a  whole  forest  of  pin 

e  earth  for  miles  with  elephantine  masses;  the  superna- 
tural extent  of  landscape  that  opens  to  us  new  worlds;  the 

M  birds  that  suddenly  cross  you  In 
path,  and  stare,  :y — and  all  the  soft  sights  of  joy  and 

loveliness  that  mingle  with  these  sublime  and  etaeles,  the 

rich  pastures  and  the  numerous  flocks,  and  the  golden  bees  and  the 
wild  flowers,  and  the  carved  and  painted  cottages,  and  the  simple 
manners  and  the  primeval  grace — wherever  I  moved,  I  was  in  turn 
appalled  or  enchanted;  but  w hate v  i •! d,  new  imagi 

g  up  in  my  mind,  and  new  feelings  ever  crowded  on  my  fancy. 
If  I  were  to  assign  the  purticular  quality  which  conduces  to  that 
dreamy  and  voluptuous  existence,  which  men  of  high  imagination 
experience  in  Venice,  I  should  describe  it  as  the  feeling  of  absti ac- 
tion, which  is  remarkable  in  that  city,  and  peculiar  to  it.  Venice  is 
the  only  city  which  can  yield  the  magical  delights  of  solitude.  All 
is  still  and  silent  No  rude  sound  disturbs  your  reveries;  fancy, 
therefore,  is  not  put  to  flight  No  rude  sound  distracts  your  self- 
consciousness.  This  tenders  existence  intense.  We  feel  everything. 
And  we  feel  thus  keenly  in  a  city  not  only  eminently  beautiful,  not 
only  abounding  in  wonderful  creations  of  art  but  each  step  of  which 
is  hallowed  ground,  quick  with  associations,  that  in  their  more  vari- 
ous nature,  their  nearer  relation  to  ourselves,  and  perhaps  their  more 
picturesque  character,  exercise  a  greater  influence  over  the  imagina- 
tion than  the  more  antique  story  of  Greece  and  Rome.     We  feel  al? 


1:\\  i.x  BttOCUT*  395 

»,  which,  although  her  luster  be  Indeed  dimmed, 

still  count  among  her  daughters  maidens  fairer  than  the  orient  peaila 
i  her  warriors  once  loved  to  deck  them.     Poetry,  Tradi- 
tion, and    I  I  are  the  Graces  that  have  invested  with  an 
.harming  eestus  this  Aphrodite  of  cities. 

Disraeli 


Joan  of  Arc 
What  is  to  be  thought  of  her?  What  is  to  be  thought  of  the 
poor  shepherd-girl  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  Lorraine,  that  — 
like  the  Hebrew  shepherd-boy  from  the  hills  and  forests  of  J 
—  rose  suddenly  out  of  the  quiet,  out  of  the  safety,  out  of  the  relig- 
ious inspiration,  rooted  in  deep  pastoral  solitudes,  to  a  station  in  the 
van  of  armies,  an  1  to  the  more  perilous  station  at  the  right  hand  of 
kings?  The  Hebrew  boy  inaugurated  his  patriotic  mission  by  an 
act,  by  a  victorious  act,  such  as  no  man  could  deny.  But  so  did  the 
girl  of  Lorraine,  if  we  read  her  story  as  it  was  read  by  those  who 
-aw  her  nearest  Adverse  armies  bore  witness  to  the  boy  as  no 
ender:  hut  so  they  did  to  the  gentle  girl.  Judged  by  the 
voices  of  all  who  saw  them  from  a  station  of  good-will,  both  were 
found  true  and  loyal  to  any  promises  involved  in  their  first  acts 
that  made  the  difference  between  their  subsequent 
fortunes.  The  boy  rose  —  to  a  splendor  and  a  noonday  prosperity, 
both  personal  and  public,  that  rang  through  the  records  of  his  people, 
ami  became  a  by- word  amongst  his  posterity  for  a  thousand  years, 
until  the  >  departing  from  Judah.     The   poor,  forsaken 

on  the  contrary,  drank  not  herself  from  that  cup  of  rest  which 
she  had  secured  for  France.  She  never  sang  together  with  the 
songs  that  rose  in  her  native  Dcmremy,  ai  ecboea  to  the  departing 
ra,  She  mingled  not  in  the  festal  dances  of  Vaucou- 
d  in  rapture  the  redemption  of  France.  No! 
for  her  voice  was  then  silent.  No!  for  her  feet  were  dust.  Pure, 
innocent,  noble  hearted  girl!  whom,  from  earliest  youth,  ever  I 
believed  in  as  full  of  truth  and  sell-saeri;  |    the 

strongest  pledges  for  thy  side,  t  once  —  no,  not  for  a  mo- 

ment of  weakness —  1  in  the  vision  of  coronets  and 

honor  nn.     Coronets  for  thee  1     Oh,  nol     Honors,    if: 

oome  when  all  is  over,  are  for  those  that  si  od.     DaughUi 


896  KXMkClSES  l.\   I\  LOCUTION. 

of  Domreray,  when  the  gratitude  of  thy  king  shall  awaken,  thou 

wilt  be  sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  dead.     Call  her,  king  of  France,  but 

I  not  bear  thee  I     Cite  her  by  thy  apparitors  to  come  and 

0  a  robe  of  honor,    but  she  will  be  found  en  contumace.     'When 

-aiders  of  universal  France,  as  even  y.-t  may  happen,  shall  pro- 
claim the  grandeur  of  the  poor  shepherd-girl  that  gave  up  all  for  her 
country  —  thy  ear,  young  shepherd-girl,  will  have  been  deaf  for  five 
centuries.  To  mflfer  and  to  do,  that  was  thy  portion  in  this  life;  to 
do — never  for  thyself,  always  for  others;  to  suffer — never  in  the 
persons  of  generous  champions,  always  in   thy  own;  that  was  thy 

y  ;  and  not  for  a  moment  was  it  hidden  from  thyself, 
thou  saidst,  'is  short,  and  the  sleep  whi.  h   is  in  the  grave  is  long. 
Let  me  u-e  that  life,  so  transitory,  for  the  glory  of  those  heavenly 
dreams  destined  to  comfort  the  sleep  which  is  so  long.'     This  pure 

re  — pure  from  every  suspicion  of  even  a  \ 

was  pure  in  senses  more  obvious — never  once  did  this 
holy  child,  as  regarded  herself,  relax  from  her  belief  in  the  darkness 
that  wa<  traveling  to  meet  her.  She  might  not  prefigure  the 
maimer  of  her  death;  she  saw  not  in  vision,  perhaps,  the  aerial 
altitude  of  the  fiery  scaffold,  the  spectators  without  end  on  every 
road  pouring  into  Rouen  as  to  a  coronation,  the  surging  smoke,  the 
volleying  flames,  the  hostile  faces  all  around,  the  pitying  eye  that 
lurked  but  here  and  there  until  nature  and  imperishable  truth  broke 
loose  from  artificial  restraints;  these  might  not  be  apparent  through 
the  mists  of  the  hurrying  future.  But  the  voice  that  called  her  to 
death,  that  she  heard  for  ever. 

Great  was  the  throne  of  France  even  in  those  days,  and  great 
was  he  that  sat  upon  it;  but  well  Joanna  knew  that  not  the  throne, 
nor  he  that  sat  upon  it,  was  for  her;  but,  on  the  contrary,  that  she 
was  for  them;  not  she  by  them,  but  they  by  her,  should  rise  from 
the  dust.  Gorgeous  were  the  lilies  of  France,  and  for  centuries  had 
the  privilege  to  spread  their  beauty  over  land  and  sea,  until,  in 
another  century,  the  wrath  of  God  and  man  combined  to  wither 
t£em  ;  but  well  Joanna  knew,  early  at  Domremy  she  had  read  that 
bitter  truth,  that  the  lilies  of  France  would  decorate  no  garland  tor 
her.     Flower  nor  bud,  bell  nor  blossom  would  ever  bloom  for  her. 

Thomas  De  Quincey. 


Kxercises  in  Elocution,  397 

Death  and  Sleep. 
How  wonderful  is  Death, 

Death  and  his  brother  Sleep! 
One  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 

Wnh  lips  of  lurid  blue; 
The  other  rosy  as  the  morn 

When,  throned  on  ocean  wave, 

It  blushes  o'er  the  world : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful  1 

Hath  then  the  gloomy  Power, 
Whose  reign  is  in  the  tainted  sepulchres, 
'  Seized  on  her  sinless  soul  ? 
Must  then  that  peerless  form 
Which  love  and  admiration  cannot  view 
Without  a  beating  heart,  those  azure  veins 
Which  steal  like  streams  along  a  field  of  snow, 
That  lovely  outline,  which  is  fair 
As  breathing  marble,  perish? 
Must  putrefaction's  breath 
Leave  nothing  of  this  heavenly  sight 

But  loathsomeness  and  ruin  ? 
Spare  nothing  but  a  gloomy  theme 
On  which  the  lightest  heart  might  moralize? 
Or  is  it  only  a  sweet  slumber 
Stealing  o'er  sensation, 
Which  the  breath  of  roseate  morning 
Chaseth  into  darkness? 
Will  Ianthe  wake  again, 
And  give  that  faithful  bosom  joy 
Whose  sleepless  spirit  waits  to  catch 
Light,  life  and  rapture  from  her  smile? 

Her  dewy  eyes  are  closed, 
And  on  their  lids,  whose  texture  fine 
Scarce  hides  the  dark-blue  o*bs  beneath, 

The  baby  Sleep  is  pillowed : 

Her  golden  tresses  shade 
ion-head's  stainless  pride, 
Curling  hi  lasite 

Around  a  marWfi  column. 


*98  EXERCISES  IN  ELOCUTION. 

Dark  I  whence  that  rushing  sound? 

Tis  like  the  wondrous  strain 
That  round  a  lonely  ruin  swells, 
Which  wandering  on  the  echoing  shore, 

The  enthusiast  hears  at  - 
'Tie  softer  than  the  west  wind's  sigh; 
'Tis  wilder  than  the  unmeasured  notes 
Of  that  strange  lyre  whose  strings 
The  genii  of  the  breezes  sweep  ; 

Those  lines  of  rainoow  light 
Are  like  the  moonbeams  when  they  fall 
Through  some  cathedra.  ,  but  the  tints 

Are  such  as  may  not  find 

Comparison  on  earth. 

Behold  the  chariot  of  the  fairy  queen  ! 
Celestial  coursers  paw  the  unyielding  air; 
Their  Ghny  pennons  at  her  word  they  furl, 
And  stop  obedient  to  the  reins  of  light  : 

These  the  queen  of  spells  drew  in ; 

She  spread  a  charm  around  the  spot, 
And  leaning  graceful  from  the  ethereal  car, 

Long  did  she  gaze,  and  silently, 

Upon  the  slumbering  maid.  Shelley. 

Death  of  Amelia  WentwortL 
Amelia  — Marian. 

Marian.  Are  you  awake,  dear  lady  ? 

Amelia.  Wide  awake. 
There  are  the  stars  abroad,  I  see.     I  feel 
As  though  I  had  been  sleeping  many  a  day. 
What  time  o'  the  night  is  it? 

Afar.  About  the  stroke 
Of  midnight 

Amel.  Let  it  come.     The  skies  are  calm 
And  bright;  and  so,  at  last  my  spirit  is. 
Whether  the  heavens  have  influeuce  on  the  mind 
Through  life,  or  only  in  our  days  of  death, 


Exercises  i.x  Elocution.  399 

I  know  not ;  yet  before,  ne'er  did  my  soul 

upwards  with  such  hope  of  joy,  or  pine 
For  that  hope's  deep  completion.     Marian  ! 

M  see  DON  of  heaven.     There  —  enough. 
Are  you  not  well,  sweet  girl? 

Mar.  Oh!  yes:  but  you 
Speak  now  so  strangely  :  you  were  wont  to  talk 
Of  plain  familiar  things,  and  cheer  me:  now 
!  my  spirit  drooping. 

Amd.  I  have  spoke 
Nothing  but  cheerful  words,  thou  idle  girl. 
Look,  look  I  above  :  the  canopy  of  the  sky, 
Spotted  with  stars,  shines  like  a  bridal-dress: 
A  queen  might  envy  that  so  regal  blue 
Which  wraps  the  world  o'  nighta     Alas,  alas  I 
I  do  remember  in  my  follying  days 
What  will  and  wanton  wishes  once  were  mine, 

I  —  radiant  gems — and  beauty  with  no  peer 
And  friends  (a  ready  host)  —  but  I  forget 
I  shall  be  dreaming  soon,  as  once  I  dreamt, 
When  I  had  hope  to  light  me.     Have  you  no  song, 
My  gentle  girl,  for  a  sick  woman's  ear? 

s  one  I've  heard  you  sing:  "They  said  his  eye"  — 
No,  that's  not  it:  the  words  are  hard  to  hit. 
"  His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  bright"  — 

Afar.  'Tisso. 
You  've  a  good  memory.     Well,  listen  to  me. 
I  must  not  trip,  I 

Amel.  I  hearken.     Now. 

Song. 

His  eye  like  the  mid-day  sun  was  bright 
Here  had  a  proud  but  a  milder  light, 
Clear  and  sweet  like  the  cloudless  moon . 
isl  and  must  it  fade  as  soon  ? 

His  vo:ce  was  like  the  breath  of  w 
But  hers  was  fainter  —  softer  far; 
And  yet,  when  he  of  his  long  love  sights^ 
8he  laughed  in  scorn :  —  he  fled  and 


400  Ejautonam  in  Elocution. 

r.  There  is  another  verse,  of  a  different  air. 
But  indistinct  —  like  the  low  moaning 
Of  summer  winds  in  the  evening  air:  thus  it  runs  — 

They  said  he  died  upon  the  wave, 

And  his  bed  was  the  wild  and  bounding  billow; 
Her  bed  shall  be  a  dry  earth  gra. 

■are  it  quick,  for  she  wants  her  pillow. 

AmeL  How  slowly  and  how  silently  doth  time 

Float  on  his  starry  journey.     Still  he  g. 

And  goes,  and  goes,  and  doth  not  pass  a 

with  the  golden  morning,  calmly, 

And  with  the  moon  at  night     Methinks  I  see 

Him  stretching  wide  abroad  his  mighty  wingt, 

'or  ever  o'er  the  crowds  of  men, 

l   huge  vulture  with  its  prey  beneath. 

I,o  !  I  am  here,  and  time  seems  passing  on : 

:     \   I  shall  be  a  breathless  thing  — 

Yet  he  will  still  be  here;  and  the  blue  hours 

Will  laugh  as  gaily  on  the  busy  world 

Aj  though  I  were  alive  to  welcome  them. 

There's  one  will  shed  some  tears.     Poor  Charles! 

[Charles  enters.] 
Charles.  I  am  here. 

Did  you  not  call? 

AmeL.  You  come  in  time.     My  thoughts 

full  of  you,  dear  Charles.     Your  mother —  now 
I  take  that  title —  in  her  dying  hour 
Has  privilege  to  speak  unto  your  youth. 
There's  one  thing  pains  me,  and  I  would  be  calm. 
My  husband  has  been  harsh  unto  me  —  yet 
He  is  my  husband;  and  you'll  think  of  this 
If  any  sterner  feeling  move  your  heart  ? 
Seek  no  revenge  for  me.     You  will  not  ?  —  Nay, 
Is  it  so  hard  to  grant  my  last  request  ? 
He  is  my  husband :  he  was  father,  too, 
Of  the  blue-eyed  boy  you  were  so  fond  of  once. 
Do  you  remember  how  his  eyelids  closed 


yercises  in  Elocution.  401 

the  first  summer  rdse  was  opening? 
\-  two  years  ar,o  -  -  more,  more :  and  I  — 
I  now  am  hastening  to  him.     Pretty  boy  I 
He  was  my  only  child.     How  fair  he  looked 
Id  the  white  garment  that  encircled  him  — 
'Twas  like  a  marble  slumber;  ami  when  we 
him  beneath  th<*  given  earth  in  his  bed, 
I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking  —  yet  I  lived: 
But  I  am  weary  now. 

Mar.  You  must  not  talk, 
Indeed,  dear  lady;  r.ay 

CJi.  Indeed  you  must  not. 

Amel  Well,  then,  I  will  be  silent;  yet  not  so. 
For  ere  we  journey,  ever  should  we  take 
A  sweet  leave  of  our  friends,  and  wish  them  well, 
And  tell  them  to  take  heed,  and  bear  in  mind 
Our  blessings.     So,  in  your  breast,  dear  Charles, 
Wear  the  remembrance  of  Amelia. 
She  ever  loved  you  —  ever ;  so  as  might 
Become  a  mother's  tender  love  —  no  more. 
Charles,  I  have  iived  in  this  too  bitter  world 
Now  almost  thirty  seasons:  you  have  been 
A  child  to  me  for  one-third  of  that  time. 
I  took  you  to  my  bosom,  when  a  boy, 
Who  scarce  had  seen  eight  springs  come  fcrth  and  vanish. 
You  have  a  warm  heart,  Charles,  and  the  base  crowd 
Will  feed  upor.  it,  if — but  yen  must  make 
That  heart  a  grave,  and  in  it.  bury  deep 
Its  young  anu  beautiful  feelings. 

Ch.  I  will  do 
All  that  you  wish  —  all ;  but  you  cannot  die 
And  leave  nu-  ? 

/.  Yo:»  shall  see  how  calmly  Death 
Will  come  and  press  his  linger,  oold  and  pale, 

■••  now  smiling  lip:  the*e  eyes  men  swore 
Were  brighter  than  the  stars  that  (ill  the  sky, 
An  1  vet  they  must  grow  dim:  an  hour 

Ch.  Oh  I  no. 


402  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

No,  no :  oh !  say  not  so.     T  cannot  bear 
To  hear  you  talk  thus.     Will  you  break  my  heart? 
Amel  No  :  I  would  caution  it  against  a  change, 
That  soon  must  happen.     Calmly  let  us  talk. 

When  I  am  dead 

Ch.  Alas,  alasl 
Amel.  This  is 
Not  as  I  wish :  you  had  a  braver  spirit. 

t  come  forth.     Why,  I  have  heard  you  talk 

Of  war  and  danger  —  Ah  I 

[Wentworth  enters.] 
r.  She's  pale  —  speak,  speak. 
Ch.  Oh  !  my  lost  mother.     How !     You  here  ? 
•  t.  I  am  come 
To  pray  her  pardon.     L«-t  DM  touch  her  hand. 

ial  she  faints:  Amelial  [Sht  die*. 

Poor  faded  girl !     I  was  too  harsh  —  unjust. 
CK  Look! 

Mar.  She  has  left  us. 
Ch.  It  is  false.     Revive  1 
Mother,  revive,  revive  1 
J/'/r.  It  is  in  vain. 

Ch.  Is  it  then  so?     My  soul  is  sick  and  faint. 
Oh  1  mother,  mother.     I  —  I  cannot  weep. 
Oh  for  some  blinding  tears  to  dim  my  eyes, 
So  I  might  not  gaze  on  her.     And  has  death 
Indeed,  indeed  struck  her  —  so  beautiful  ? 
So  wronged,  and  never  erring;  so  beloved 
By  one  —  who  now  has  nothing  left  to  love. 
Oh  1  thou  bright  heaven,  if  thou  art  calling  now 
Thy  bright  angels  to  thy  bosom  —  rest, 
For  lo !  the  brightest  of  thy  host  is  gone  — 
Departed  —  and  the  earth  is  dark  below. 
And  now  —  I'll  wander  far  and  far  away, 
Like  oue  that  hath  no  country.     I  shall  find 
A  sullen  pleasure  in  that  life,  and  when 
I  say  '•  I  have  no  friend  in  all  the  worl<3," 
My  heart  will  swell  with  pride  and  make  a  show 


EXMRCIBEA   HI    I. LOCUTION.  408 

Onto  itself  of  happiness;  and  in  truth 
There  j|  in  that  same  solitude  a  taste 
Of  pleasure  which  the  social  never  know. 
From  land  to  land  I'll  roam,  in  all  a  stranger, 
Ami,  as  the  body  gains  a  braver  look, 
By  staring  in  the  face  of  all  the  winds, 
So  from  the  sad  aspect  of  different  things 
My  soul  shall  pluck  a  courage,  and  bear  up 
Against  the  past.     And  now  —  for  Hindostan. 

Bryan  W.  Procter. 

The  Minstrel's  Song  in  Ella. 
Oh  1  sing  unto  my  roundelay ; 

Ohl  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me; 
Dance  no  more  at  holiday, 
Like  a  running  river  be; 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  hair  as  the  winter  night, 
White  his  neck  as  summer  snow, 
Ruddy  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below : 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  deaths 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Sweet  his  tongue  as  throstle's  note, 

Quick  in  dance  as  thought  was  he; 
Deft  his  tabor,  cudgel  stout ; 
Oh  1  he  lies  by  the  willow-tree. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

If  ark  I  the  raven  flaps  his  wing, 

In  the  briered  dell  below: 
Hark!  the  d.-.ith-owl  loud  doth  sing, 

To  the  nightmares  as  they  go. 


404  EXMBCI8MM  OF  ELOCUTION. 

My  love  is  dead. 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  w  illow-lree. 

See!  the  white  moon  shines  on  h!_rh, 

Whiter  than  the  moming  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  deao, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Here,  upon  my  true-love"?  crave, 
Shall  the  parish  flowers  be  laid, 
Nor  one  holy  saint  to  save 
All  the  sorrows  of  a  maid. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  !>ed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

With  my  hands  I'll  bind  the  briers, 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre; 
Elfin-fairy,  light  your  fi 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  d«ad, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Come  with  acorn  cup  and  thorn, 

Drain  my  heart's  blood  all  away ; 
Life  and  all  its  good  I  scorn, 

Dance  by  night,  or  feast  by  day. 
My  love  is  dead, 
Gone  to  his  death-bed, 
All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Water-witches,  crowned  with  reytes, 

Bear  me  to  your  deadly  tide. 
I  die  —  I  come — my  true-love  waits. 

Thus  the  damsel  spake,  and  died.  Chattorton. 


El  i  or  Elocuti  405 

Death  of  Long  Tom  Coffin, 
Lifting  his  broad  hands  high  iutu  the  air,  his  voice  was  heard  in 
the  tempest  '  God's  will  be  done  with  me,'  he  cried:  'I  saw  the 
first  timber  of  the  Ariel  laid,  and  shall  live  just  long  enough  to  see 
it  turn  out  of  her  bottom;  alter  which  I  wish  to  live  no  Id  j 
Hut  his  shipmates  were  far  beyond  the  sounds  of  his  voice  before 
•  half  uttered.     All  command  of  the  boat  was  rendered 

-sible,  by  the  numbers  it  contained,  u  well  as  the  raging  of  the 
surf;  and  as  it  rose  on  the  white  crest  of  a  wave,  Ton  saw  his 
beloved  little  craft  for  the  last  time.  It  fell  into  a  trough  of  the  sea, 
and  in  a  few  moments  more  its  fragment!  were  ground  into  splinters 
on  the  adjoining  rocks.  The  cockswain  (Tom)  still  remained  where 
he  had  cast  off  the  rope,  and  beheld  the  numerous  heads  and  arms 
that  appeared  rising,  at  short  intervals,  on  the  waves,  some  making 
powerful  and  well-directed  efforts  to  gain  the  sands,  that  were 
becoming  visible  as  the  tide  fell,  and  others  wildly  tossed,  in  the 
frantic  movements  of  helpless  despair.  The  honest  old  seaman  gave 
a  cry  of  joy  as  he  saw  Barnstable  [the  commander  whom  Tom  had 
forced  into  the  boat]  issue  from  the  surf,  where  one  by  one  several 

en  soon  appeared  also,  dripping  and  exhausted.     Many  others 
of  the  crew  were  carried  in  a  similar  manner  to  places  of  M 
though,  as  Tom  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  bowsprit,  he  could  not 
conceal  from  his  reluctant  eyes  the  lifeless  forms  that  were,  in  other 

.  driven  against  the  rocks  with  a  fury  that  soon  left  them  but 
the  outward  vestiges  of  humanity. 
Dillon  and  the  cockswain  were  now  the  sole  occupants  of  their 

iful  station.  The  former  stood  in  a  kind  of  stupid  despair,  a 
witness  of  the  scene;  but  as  his  curdled  blood  began  again  to  How 
more  warmly  to  his  heart,  he  crept  close  to  the  side  of  Tom,  with 
that  sort  of  selfish  feeling  that  makes  even  hopeless  misery  more 
tolerable,  when  endured  in  participation  with  another. 

'  When  the  tide  falls,'  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed  the  agony 

r,  though  hi<  w  hall 

be  able  to  walk  to  land.' 

'There  was  One  and  only  On  were  the 

tame  as  a  dry  deck,' returned    I  rain;  'and  none  but  such 

as  have  His  power  will  ever  be  able  to  walk  from  these  rocks  to  the 
sands.'     The  old  seaman  paused,  and  turning  his  eye.-,  which  exhib- 


406  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

ited  a  mingled  expression  of  disgust  and  compassion,  on  bis  com- 
panion,  he  added  with  reverence:  'Had  you  thought  more  of  Him 
in  fair  weather,  your  case  would  be  less  to  be  pitied  in  this  tempest' 

'Do  you  still  think  there  is  much  danger?'  asked  Dillon, 

'To  them  that  have  reason  to  fear  death.  Listen !  Do  you  hear 
that  hollow  noise  beneath  ye?' 

i  driving  by  the  vessel!' 
the  poor  thing  herself/  said  the  affected  cockswain,  '  giving 
h»r  last  groans.     The  water  is  breaking  up  her  decks,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more,  the  handsomest  model  that  ever  cut  a  wave,  will  be 
e  chips  that  fell  from  her  in  framing!' 

4  Why  then  did  you  remain  here?'  cried  Dillon  wildly. 

'To  die  in  my  coffin,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of  God/  returned 
Tom.  '  These  waves  are  to  me  what  the  land  is  to  you:  I  was  born 
on  them,  and  I  have  always  meant  that  they  should  be  my  grave.' 

'But  I  —  1/  shrieked  Dillon,  'I  am  not  ready  to  die!  —  I  cannot 
die!  —  I  will  not  die!' 

'  Poor  wretch  I '  muttered  his  companion,  '  you  must  go  like  the 
rest  of  us;  when  the  death-watch  is  called,  none  can  skulk  from 
the  muster.' 

'I  can  swim,'  Dillon  continued,  rushing  with  frantic  eagerness  to 
the  side  of  the  wreck.  'Is  there  no  billet  of  wood,  no  rope,  that  I 
can  take  with  me  ? ' 

'None;  everything  has  been  cut  away,  or  carried  off  by  the  sea. 
If  ye  are  about  to  strive  for  your  life,  take  with  ye  a  stout  heart 
and  a  clean  conscience,  and  trust  the  rest  to  God.' 

'God! '  echoed  Dillon,  in  the  madness  of  his  frenzy.  'I  know  no 
God!  there  is  no  God  that  knows  me! ' 

'Peace!'  said  the  deep  tones  of  the  cockswain,  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  speak  in  the  elements;  'blasphemer,  peace!' 

The  heavy  groaning,  produced  by  the  water  in  the  timbers  of  the 
Arid,  at  that  moment  added  its  impulse  to  the  raging  feelings  of 
Dillon,  and  he  cast  himself  headlong  into  the  sea.  The  water, 
thrown  by  the  rolling  of  the  surf  on  the  beach,  was  necessarily 
returned  to  the  ocean,  in  eddies,  in  different  places  favorable  to  such 
an  action  of  the  element.  Into  the  edge  of  one  of  these  counter- 
currents,  that  was  produced  by  the  very  rocks  on  which  the  schooner 
fey,  and  which  the  watermen  call  the  'under-tow,'  Dillon  had  un- 


407 

knowingly  thrown  his  person;  and  when  the  waves  had  d 
him  a  short  distance  from  the  wreck,  he  was  met  by  a  stream  that 
his  most  (]«•.-[. erate  efforts  could  not  overcome.  He  was  a  light  and 
powerful  swimmer,  and  the  struggle  was  hard  and  protracted.  Willi 
the  shore  immediately  before  his  eyes,  and  at  no  great  distance,  he 
was  led,  as  by  a  false  phantom,  to  continue  his  efforts,  although  they 
did  not  advance  him  a  foot.  The  old  seaman,  who  at  first  had 
watched  his  motions  with  careless  indifference,  understood  the  dan- 
ger of  his  situation  at  a  glance,  and,  forgetful  of  his  own  fate,  he 
shouted  aloud,  in  a  voice  that  was  driven  over  the  struggling  victim 
to  the  ears  of  his  shipmates  on  the  sands* 

'  Sheer  to  port,  and  clear  the  under-tow  1     Sheer  to  the  south- 
ward I ' 

Dillon  heard  the  sounds,  but  his  faculties  were  too  much  obscured 
by  terror  to  distinguish  their  object;  he,  however,  blindly  yielded 
to  the  call,  and  gradually  changed  his  direction  until  his  face  was 
once  more  turned  toward  the  vessel.  Tom  looked  around  him  for  a 
rope,  but  all  had  cone  over  with  the  spars,  or  been  swept  away  by 
the  waves.  At  this  moment  of  disappointment,  his  eyes  met  those 
of  the  desperate  Dillon.  Calm  and  inured  to  horrors  as  was  the 
an  seaman,  he  involuntarily  passed  his  hand  before  his  brow  to 
exclude  the  look  of  despair  he  encountered;  and  when,  a  moment 
afterward,  he  removed  the  rigid  member,  he  beheld  the  sinking  form 
of  the  victim  as  it  gradually  settled  in  the  ocean,  still  struggling  with 
ar  but  impotent  strokes  of  the  arms  and  feet  to  gain  the  wreck, 
and  to  preserve  an  existence  that  had  been  so  much  abused  in  its 
boor  of  allotted  probation.  'He  will  soon  meet  his  God,  and  learn 
that  his  God  knows  him!'  murmured  the  cockswain  to  himself. 
As  he  yet  spoke,  the  wreck  of  the  Arid  yielded  to  an  overwhelm- 
ing sea,  and  after  a  universal  shudder,  her  timbers  and  planks  gave 
way,  and  were  swept  toward  the  cliffs,  bearing  the  body  of  the 
simple-hearted  cockswain  among  the  ruins. 

James  F.   Cooper. 

The  Character  of  Falstaff. 
Palstaff's  wit  is  an  emanation  of  a  fine  constitution  j  an  exubera- 
tion  of  good-humor  and  good-nature;  an  overflowing  of  his  love 
of  laughter  and  good-fellowship;  a  t>   his   heart's  ease 

18 


408  Exercises  in  Elocution. 

and  over-contentment  with  himself  and  others.     He  would  not  be 
in  character  if  he  were  not  so  fat  as  he  is;  fur  there  k  tl m 
keeping  in  the  boundless  luxury  of  his  imagination,  and  the  | 
pered  se  so*  of  his  physical  appetites.     He  enriches 

nourishes  his  mind  with  jests,  as  he  does  his  body  with  sack  and 
sugar.     He  carves  out  his  jokes  as  he  would  a  capon  or  a  haunch 
of  venison,  where  there  is  cut  and  come  again  ;  and  pours  <  tit  upon 
them  the  oil  of  gladness.     His   tongue  drops  fatness,  and  in  the 
hambers  of  his  brain  'it  snows  of  meat  and  drink.'     He  kc 
up  perpetual  holiday  and  open  house,  and  we  live  with  him  in  a 
round  of  invitations  to  a  rump  and  dozen.     Yet  we  are  not  to  sup- 
pose that  he  was  a  mere  sensualist     All  this  is  as  much  in  isuginft- 
as  in  reality.     His  sensuality  does  not  engross  and  stupify  his 
other  faculties,  bat  'ascends  me  into  the  brain,  clears  away  all  the 
dull  crude    vapors  that  environ  it,  and  makes  it  full  of  nin 
and  delectable  shapes.'     His  imagination  keeps  up  the  ball  after  his 
senses  have  done  with  it.     He  seems  to  have  even  a  greater  enjoy- 
ment of  the  freedom  from  restraint,  of  good  cheer,  of  his  ease,  of  bif 
I  the  ideal  exaggerated  description  which  he  gives  of  them, 
than  in  fact     He  never  fails  to  enrich  his  discourse  with  allusions 
to  eating  and  drinking;  hut  we  never  see  him  at   able.     He  CM 
"wn  larder  about  with  him,  and  he  is  himself  'a  tun  of  man.' 
pulling  out  the  bottle  in  the  field  of  battle  is  a  joke  to  show  his 
contempt  for  glory  accompanied  with  danger,  his  systematic  adher- 
ence to  his  Epicurean  philosophy  in  the  most  trying  circumstances. 
Again,  such  is  his  deliberate  tion  of  his  own  vices,  that  it 

does  not  seem  quite  certain  whether  the  account  of  his  hostess's  bill, 
found  in  his  pocket,  with  such  an  out-of-the-way  charge  for  capons 
and  sack,  with  only  one  half-penny-worth  of  bread,  was  not  put 
there  by  himself  as  a  trick  to  humor  the  jest  upon  his  favorite  pro- 
and  as  a  conscious  caricature  of  himself.  He  is  repre- 
eented  as  a  liar,  a  braggart,  a  coward,  a  glutton,  etc.,  and  yet  we  are 
not  offended,  but  delighted  with  him ;  for  he  is  all  these  as  much  to 
amuse  others  as  to  gratify  himself.  He  openly  assumes  all  these 
characters  to  show  the  humorous  part  of  them.  The  unrestrain ed 
indulgence  of  his  own  ease,  appetites,  and  convenience,  has  neither 
malice  nor  hypocrisy  in  it.  In  a  word,  he  is  an  actor  in  himself 
almost  as  much   as  upon  the  stage,  and  we  no  more    object  to  the 


Kxercises  ix  Elocution.  409 

oharaeter  of  Falstaflf  in  a  moral  point  of  view,  than  we  should  think 
of  bringing  an  excellent  comedian,  who  should  represent  him  to  the 
efore  one  of  the  police  offices. 

HazlitL 


The  Baven. 
Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and  wesry, 

many  a  quaint  and  cnrions  volume  of  forgotten  lore  — 
While  I  nodded  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber-door; 
<l'Tis  some  visitor,**  I  muttered,  "tapping  at  my  chamber-door - 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah  I  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 

v  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow  —  sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore   - 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me  —  filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before; 
Bo  that  DOW,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  T  Stood  repeating: 
"  Ti-<  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door  — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  mv  ehao 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more. 

;flv  mv  sonl  grew  stronger;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  hot  is  T  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber-door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you"  —  here  I  opened  wide  the 

door  — 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

into  that  darkness   peering,  long  I  stood  there  wonderbg, 
fear 

Ireemi  no  mortal  ever  darrd  to  dream  before* 
But  the  sil-  .al  the  stillness  ^ave  no  token, 


410  I.XKRCISES  IN  l&ocuTiom 

And    the  only   word    there    spoken   was    the   whispered   word, 

"Lenorel" 
Th's    I    whispered,   and    an    echo    murmured    back    the    word, 

"Lenorel"  — 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I  —  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window  lattice 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  — 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore. 

Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;  not  a  minute  stopped  or  stayed 
he; 

ith  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber-door  — 
cd  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door  — 
Perched  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 

"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sur« 

no  craven, 
Ghastly,  grim   and  ancient   Raven,  wandering  from   the  nightly 

shore  — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian  shore  1  ' 
Quoth  the  Raven :  "  Nevermore." 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning —  little  relevancy  bore; 
Jor  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
TSver  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber-door 
Birl  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber-door, 
With  such  name  as  "Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  uttered;  not  a  feather  then  be  fluttered- 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  411 

Till   I  more  than  muttered:  "Other  friends  have  flown 

before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before." 
Then  the  bird  said:  "Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
t  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore  — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of  "  Never  —  nevermore." 

But,  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust  and 

door; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore  — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  1 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  footfalls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
"  Wretch !  "  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee  — by  these  angels  he 
hath  sent  thee 

and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenorel 
Quaff,  oh  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore  1  ** 
Quoth  the  Raven :  "  Nevermore." 

"  Prophet  1"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!  — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil: 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  I  -ed  thee  here  ashore, 

Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted  — 


412  MXMMCUttB  W  Ei.d'rriOK 

On  this  h>me  by  horror  haunted  —  tell  me  truly,  I  implore  — 
Is  there  —  w  there  balm  in  Gilead?  —  tell  me  —  tell  me,  I  im- 
plore!" 

Quoth  the  Raven  :  "  Nevermore." 

'•Prophet!"    aaid    I,    "thing  of   evil  —  prophet    still,  if   bird    or 

devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us  —  by  that  God  we  both  ador 
Ttll  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
U         1  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
C  asp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore?" 
Quoth  the  Raven :  "  Nevermore." 

"Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend!"   I  sh: 

upstarting — 

"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night?!  Flutonian  shore! 

Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 

I        B  my  loneliness  unbroken  !  —  quit  the  bust  above  my  door! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 

door!" 

Quoth  the  Raven :  "  Nevermore." 

An  1  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 

On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door ; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  drcaminp, 

And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming,  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor; 

And  my  soul  from  out  the  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor, 

Shall  be  lifted  —  never  more! 

Pot. 


Death  of  Gawtrey  the  Coiner 

At  both  doors  now  were  heard  the  sounds  of  voices,  'Open  in 
the  king's  name,  or  expect  no  mercy!'  'Hist!'  said  Gawtrey. 
'One  way  yet — the  window — the  rope.* 

Morton  opened  the  casement — Gawtrey  uncoiled  the  rope.  The 
dawn  was  breaking  ;  it  was  light  in  the  streets,  but  all  seemed  quiet 
without  The  doors  reeled  and  shook  beneath  the  pressure  of  the 
pursuers.     Gawtrey  flung  the  rope  across  the  street  to  the  opposite 


KxmRGUWa  ix  Elocution,  41S 

parapet ;  after  two  or  three  efforts,  the  grappling-hook  caught  firm 
bold  — the  perilous  path  was  made. 

'Go  first,'  said  Morton;  '  I  will  not  leave  you  now;  you  will  be 
r  getting  across  than  I  shall.     I  will  keep  guard  till  you  are 
u\vr.' 

'  Bark  I  hark  1  —  are  you  mad  ?  You  keep  guard  1  What  is  your 
strength  to  mine?  Twenty  men  shall  not  move  that  door,  while 
my  freight  is  against  it.  Quick,  or  you  destroy  us  both  I  Besides, 
you  will  hold  the  rope  for  DM,  it  may  not  be  strong  enough  for  my 
bulk  of  itself.  Stayl — stay  one  moment.  If  you  escape,  and  I 
fjil I  —  Fanny  —  my  father,  he  will  take  care  of  her — you  remember 
—  thanks!     Forgive  me  all  I     Go;   that's  right  I ' 

With  a  firm  pulse,  Morton  threw  himself  on  that  dreadful  bridge; 
IDg  and  «Ta-k!e<l  at  his  weight.  Shifting  his  grasp  rapidly  — 
folding  his  hnath  —  with  set  teeth — with  closed  eyes  —  he  moved 
on  —  he  gained  the  parapet  —  he  stood  safe  on  the  opposite  side. 
And  now,  straining  his  eyes  across,  he  saw  through  the  open  case- 
ment into  the  chamber  he  bad  just  quitted.  Gawtrey  was  still 
igainst  the  door  to  the  principal  staircase,  for  that  of  the 
two  was  the  weaker  and  the  more  assailed.  Presently  the  explo- 
sion of  a  firearm  was  heard;  they  had  shot  through  the  pare!. 
Gawtrey  seemed  wounded,  for  he  staggered  forward,  and  uttered  a 
fierce  cry;  a  moment  more  and  he  gained  the  window  —  he  seized 
the  rope  —  lie  hung  over  the  tremendous  depth!  Morton  knelt  by 
the  parapet,  holding  the  grappling-hook  in  its  place,  with  convulsive 
grasp,  and  fixing  his  eyes,  bloodshot  with  fear  and  suspense,  on  the 
huge  bulk  that  clung  for  life  to  that  slender  cord ! 

'  Lt  voila  I  le  voila  /'  cried  a  voice  from  the  opposite  side.     Mor- 
ton raised  his  gare  from  Gawtrey  ;  the  casement  was  darkened  l»y 
the  forms  of  the  pursuers  —  they   had  burst  into   the   room — an 
officer  sprung  upon  the  parapet,  and  Gawtrey,  now  aware  of  his 
er,  opened  his  eyes,  and,  as  be  .  glared  upon  the  foe. 

The  poHoeman  deliberately  raiaed  his  pistol  —  Gawtrey  an 

-If — from  a  wound  in   his  side  the  blood  trickled  slowly  aud 

iartij  :  even  the  ofB- 

Of  law  shuddered   as  l.ri-tling  —  his 

cheek  white  —  his  Upa  drawn  convulsively  from   his  teeth,  and  his 

eye§  glaring  from  beneath  the  frown  of  agon  J  and  me:  a<v  in  uhieh 


414  ercises  in  Elocution. 

yet  spoke  the  indomitable  power  and  fierceness  of  the  man.     Ilia 

look,  so  fixed  —  so  intense  —  so  stern,  awed  the    policeman;   his 

hand  trembled  as  he  fired,  and  the  ball  struck  the  parapet  an  inch 

below  the  spot  where  Morton  knelt.     An  indistinct,  wild,  gurgling 

sound --half  laugh,  half  yell  —  of  scorn  and  glee,  broke  from  Gawt- 

rey's  lips.     He  swung  himself  on  —  near  —  near  —  nearer  —  a  yard 

from  the  parapet 

1  You  are  saved  V  cried  Morton ;  when  at  that  moment  a  volley 

from  the  fatal  casement  —  the  smoke  rolled  oyer  both  the 

fugitives  —  a  groan,  or  rather  howl,  of  rage,  and  despair,  and  agony, 

appalled  even  the  hardiest  on  whose  ear  it  came.     Morton  sp 

his  feet,  and  looked  below.     He  saw  on  the  rugged  stones,  far  down, 

a  dark,  formless,  motionless  mass  —  the  strong  man  of  passion  and 

levity  —  the  giant  who  had  played  with  life  and  soul,  as  an  infant 

witii  the  baubles  that  it  prizes  and  breaks  —  was  what  the  Ccesar 

ami  the  l.per  alike  are,  when  all  clay  is  without  God's  br* 

what  glory,  genius,  power,  and  beauty,  would  be  for  ever  and  for 

ever,  if  there  were  no  God ! 

Bulwer 


Jeanie  Morrison. 
I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  many  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  love  of  life's  young  day  I 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en, 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  love  grows  cooL 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  owre  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  1 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 


Exer CISES  IN  El ocutton.  A  [ 5 

Tu  us  then  we  loved  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
8weet  time  1  —  sad  time !  —  twa  bairns  at  schul©, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart! 
'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  lear  ilk  ither  lear; 
And  tones,  and  looks,  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  ever  mair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  owre  ae  braid  page, 

WV  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  schule-weans,  laughin',  said, 

Wa  clocked  thegither  harae? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays  — 

The  schule  then  skailed  at  noon  — 
When  we  ran  aff  to  speel  the  braes  — 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea, 
As  are  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 

0'  schule-time  and  o'  thee. 
Oh,  mornin'  life  I  oh,  mornin'  love! 

Oh,  lightsome  days  and  lang, 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  heart*, 

Like  simmer  blossoms,  sprang! 

O  mind  je,  love,  Low  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  water  croon? 

18» 


410  ASHRHMRf  tM  Ei.ovrTlON. 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  owre  our  heads, 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 
The  throssil  whistled  sweet. 

The  throssil  whistled  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sung  to  the  trees, 
And  we  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies; 
And  on  the  knowe  aboon  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentaeas  o*  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat  I 

Aye,  aye,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek, 
Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time. 

When  hearts  were  fresh  ami  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled — unsung  I 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thochts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 
Ohl  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ; 
Oh !  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  great 

WP  dreamings  o*  langsyne? 

I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot 
The  fount  that  first  burst  1-ae  this  heart. 

Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 
And  channels  deeper  as  it  rins, 

The  love  o'  life's  young  day. 


Exercises  lx  ElocuMK.  417 

O  dear,  dear  Jennie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young, 
I've  ne?er  seen  your  faee,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue ; 
Bat  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 

Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 

O'  bygane  days  and  me  1 

Motherwe* 


Fading  —  Dying. 
The  autumn  winds  are  swelling  high, 

And  autumn  leaves  are  lying  low  ; 
And  playing  through  the  murky  sky, 

I  see  the  flocks  of  wild-birds  go. 
Twee  on  a  sunny,  bright  May  day, 

Ah!  long  ago  it  seemeth  now  — 
[  turned  me  from  the  world  away 

With  weary  feet  and  throbbing  brow. 

And  '  that  fatal  hour 

Has  my  life'l  lamp  been  waning  dim, 
And  fading  with  the  autumn  flower, — 

I  soon  shall  sing  my  evening  hymn  ; 
shall  sing  my  evening  hymn, 

And  lav  me  down  alone  to  re 
Then  Death,  the  Spirit  OOld  and  grim, 

Will  come  in  clouds  of  darkness  dr. 

Through  all  the  night  so  long  and  still, 

In  my  shadowy  chamber  alone  I  lie  — 
While  the  moon  shines  pale  on  the  window  sill, 

And  the  mystic  boon  g  Jf  — 

I  think  o'er  all  the  glad,  bright  way 

My  life  hath  pi  v  short  years; 

: 

And  night  ha*  come  with  gloom  and  tears 


♦  is  ExMMdama  ur  ELoctmex 

But  surely,  soon  will  break  the  morn  — 
The  fair  light  of  the  Bettrr  Latxl, 
i),  unto  Angel  glories  borne, 
.'ore  the  great  white  throne  I'll  stand. 
Oh  1  I  have  dreamed,  in  days  gone  by, 
Ambition's  dream  of  pride  and  fam% 
Of  days  and  years  to  come,  when  I 
Should  gain  a  minstrel's  glorious  name. 

Now  coldly  blows  the  autumn  win<l, 

And  darker  grows  the  autumn  sky  — 
And,  withered  on  the  damp,  cold  ground, 

Summer's  bright  leaves  and  flowers  lie: 
E'en  thus  within  my  heart  are  strewn 

The  wrecks  of  each  bright  hope  and  dream. 
Like  withered  L-.ives  and  flowers,  grown, 

Precious  no  more  to  me,  they  seem. 

All  faded  are  those  visions  bright, 

And  crushed  those  dreams  of  earthly  fame, 
And  I  would  only  seek  to  write 

Within  the  book  of  life,  my  name. 
Now  life  is  no  more  bright  to  me, 

For  fairer  forms  my  soul  shall  greet — 
When  I  go  up  the  shining  way, 

The  pearly  -gate,  and  golden  street. 

Oh  1  1  am  longing  to  go  home, 

For  earth  is  growing  cold  and  dim ; 
And  soon  will  my  Redeemer  come  — 

I  soon  shall  sing  my  evening  hymn. 
And  so  she  snng  her  hymn  at  even, 

And  laid  her  down  in  peace  to  rest: 

She  woke  next  morn,  away  in  Heaven, 

To  dwell  for  aye  among  the  blest 

EJlen  Schencn 


Exercises  in  Elocution.  419 

SKETCHES  OF  AUTHORS. 

AXMBOB,  T.  B.,  a  popular  American  writer,  a  contributor  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly. 

Aret,  Mrs.  H.  E.  G.,  a  lady  of  tine  literary  talent,  who  was  edu- 
cated at  Oberlin,  Ohio.  She  published,  a  few  years  ago,  a  volume 
of  poems  entitled  Household  Songs;  she  edited  for  a  long  time  The 
Home  Monthly  and  a  juvenile  magazine  called  the  Youth's  Com- 
panion, and  has  written  much  for  the  New  York  Independent,  and 
many  other  newspapers  and  periodicals.  She  has  also  been  much 
interested  in  educational  work,  lecturing  upon  methods  of  teach- 
•nd  literary  subjects  at  Teachers'  Institutes  in  several  States. 
At  present  she  is  associated  with  her  husband,  Prof.  Oliver  Arey,  in 
conducting  the  Normal  School  at  Whitewater,  Wis. 

Browning,  Robert,  an  English  poet,  author  of  Bells  and  Pome- 
gran  tes,  The  Soul's  Tragedy,  etc. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett,  was  born  in  Londoi.  in  1809,  was 
■:y  remarkable  child,  writing  verses  at  ten  years  of  age,  and 
publishing  "An  Essay  on  Mind"  at  seventeen. 

She  had  a  very  thorough  education,  studying  the  classics,  phil- 
osophy, etc ;  but  her  favorite  study  was  the  Greek  language  and 
its  literature. 

Mrs.  Browning's  life  was  early  saddened  by  the  loss  of  an  idol- 
ized brother,  and  then  followed  years  of  illness.  But  when  others 
would  have  sunken  under  the  load  of  infirmity  and  pain,  this  sub- 
lime woman  wrote  impassioned  poetry  and  translated  Greek.  In 
1846  she  was  married  to  Robert  Browning,  and  the  last  years  of 
her  life  were  spent  in  Italy.  Under  its  sunny  skies,  and  in  the 
brightness  of  her  home,  she  was  somewhat  restored  to  health.  She 
at  Florence  on  the  29th  of  June,  1861.  In  the  English  burial 
ground  in  that  city  the  traveler  will  find  a  whit.  tblet  bear- 

ing this  inscription:  "Here  wrote  and  died  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning,  who,  in  her  woman's  heart,  united  the  wisdom  of  the 
sage  and  the  eloquence  of  the  poet;  with  her  golden  verse  she 
linked  Italy  to  Englaid.  Grateful  Florence  places  this  memorial, 
a   l>.  L88S 


«20  MMmtOOMB  W  Elo 

Bremkr,  Frkderika,  a  Swedish  st  t%  born  in  1800.     IT  r 

works  have  been  very  ably  1  by  Mary  Howitt,  of  England. 

She  wrote  Family  Cares  and  Family  Joy*,  Ti 

ina,  etc.  ice,  and  but  a  short  time  previous  to 

.tlh,  she  visited  America.  She  received  great  attention  from 
the  literary  people  of  this  country,  and  her  book,  Homes  in  the 
New  World,  published  after  her  return  to  Sweden,  is  an  interesting 
history  of  her  trawl*.  She  vis. ted  ber  people  who  had  settle!  in 
the  West,  commending  them  for  their  industry  and  thrift.  She  died 
in  181 

Brown,  Grace,  a  native  of  Comae,  Long  Island,  and  a  young 
r  of  promise. 

Bulwkr,  Sir  Edward,  was  born  in  1805.    He  was  the  youngest 

son  of  Gen.  Bulwer,   of  Hey  don   Hall,  Norfolk,  England.     After 

the  death  of  his  father  he  succeeded  to  his  mother's  1  took 

ient  family  name — LjttOO.     This  gentleman's  full  name  is, 

>rge  Earle  Lytton  Bain  volume 

blished  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  and  he  has  written  almo** 

since.     He  is  interested  in  politics  as  well  as  literature, 
an«l  has  be-  years  in  the  House  of  Commons.     I 

of  Oxford  conferred  the  degree  of  D.  C.  L.  upon  Sir  Bul- 
wer Lvtton.  in  1856  he  was  elected  rector  of  t  b  f  Glas- 
gow, and  in  1858  was  made  Secretary  for  Colonial  Affairs. 

Collins,  Willi  \m.  the  son  of  a  hatter,  was  born  on  Christmas 
day,  1721,  at  Chich.  land.     He   began    his   education   at 

Winchester  college,  but  finally  took  his  degree  at  Magdalen  college, 
Oxford.  After  leaving  school  he  took  clerical  orders,  but  soon 
abandoned  the  gown  and  prayer-book  to  apply  himself  more 
closely  to  literature. 

He  was  not  successful,  at  first,  in  attracting  much  attention  as  a 
writer,  and  it  is  said  that  he  sank  under  the  disappointment,  and  he- 
came  indolent  and  dissipated.  For  a  few  years  before  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  1759,  he  frequented  the  aisles  and  clusters  of 
Chichester  Cathedral,  night  and  day,  accompanying  the  music  with 
K)bs  and  moans.  The  poor  poet  died  of  melancholy,  and  a  gener- 
ation after  his  poems  became  popular. 


i:\ercises  in  Elocution.  421 

Some  one  has  said  that  the  u  Ode  on  the  Passions  is  a  magnificent 
gallery  of  allegorical  painting,"  and  certainly  no  poet  has  I 
his  superior  in  the  use  of  metaphor  and  personation. 

Cart,  Aligk,  was  born  in  1820,  at  Hamilton,  Ohio.  She  began 
to  write  fb»  the  press  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  her  sister  Phebe 
at  seventeen.  They  published  a  joint  volume  in  1850,  and  in  1851 
Alice  wrote  the  Clovernook  Sketches.  She  has  written  much  f<>r 
the  Atlantic,  Harper's,  The  New  York  Ledger,  The  Indepemi 
Packard's,  etc  The  sisters  removed  to  New  York  city,  in  1850, 
where  they  still  i  < 

Campbell,  Thomas,  was  born  in  the  city  of  Glasgow,  July  27, 
1777.  Though  the  family  belonged  to  the  ancient  Scottish  nobility, 
Ike  poet's  father  was  a  trader  with  Virginia,  and  failing  in  this  busi- 
ness, he  kept  a  boarding-house  for  college  students.  Thomas  was 
educated  at  Glasgow,  and  was  distinguished,  while  still  in  the  Uni- 
v,  for  his  translations  from  the  Greek  and  for  his  poetic  writ- 
ings. He  published  poetry  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  He  wrote  some 
of  the  grandest  battle  pieces  which  have  been  produced  —  Lochiel'fl 
Warning.  Hohenlinden,  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,  Song  of  the  Greeks, 
etc.  He  should  be  especially  admired  by  Americans,  for  his  Ger- 
trude of  Wyoming,  in  which  he  sketches  with  the  pencil  of  a  true 
artist,  pictures  of  Pennsylvania  scenery,  throwing  a  new  halo  over 
the  beautiful  valley  in  which  the  scenes  are  laid.  lie  died  in  1844, 
and  his  remains  lie  in  Westminster  Abbey.  A  history  of  his  life 
was  written  by  his  friend,  Dr.  Beattie,  and  published  in  1849. 

i  \ttkrton,  TnoMAS,  a  boy  of  strange  genius,  was  born  in  1 
II.-  doooitod!  all  the  literary  world,  by  producing  what  he  declared 
translations  of  ancient  manuscr  of  the  sermons 

of  priests,  sketches  in  art7  and  the  poetienl  writings  of  tbose  who 
had  been  dead  for  hundreds  of  years.  He  committed  suicide  by 
taking  arsenic,  when  a  little  more  than  seventeen  years  of  age. 

.  has  written  a  few  poems,  none  of  which  have 
been  particularly  admired,  except  No  Sect  in  Heaven.  This  is  pub- 
lished by  the  American  Tract  Society,  and  is  a  universal  favor:; 

Clahv  \A\  peasant,  born  at  Helpstone,  nearPetere- 

,  in  17'->;>.      At  thu  t.  en  b«  walke  1  MMM  MWM  MM  morning,  to 


422  J:\ercises  in  Elocution. 

buy  Thomson's  Seasons,  paying  for  the  book  a  shilling,  which  he 
had  earned  by  hard  labor.    That  very  day  lie  1  i  ite  poetry. 

His  first  volume  was  bought  for  twenty  pounds,  and  was  published 
in  1820.  He  came  into  possession  of  a  fortune  from  the  sale  of  his 
books,  and  the  contributions  made  by  noblemen  and  others;  gave 
up  his  plow;  married  a  farmer's  daughter,  and  settled  down  in  his 
library  to  the  pleasures  of  study.  But  in  an  unlucky  moment  he 
left  his  books  to  speculate  in  farming,  and  lost  not  only  all  his  hard 
earnings,  but  his  mind  also,  and  he  is  now  in  a  private  asylum  for 
the  insane. 

Colfridok,  Samuel  Taylor,  born  at  Devonshire,  England,  in  1772. 
He  was  a  schoolmate  of  Charles  Lamb  at  Christ's  hospital  In  a 
fit  of  desperation  after  the  death  of  his  father,  he  enlisted  as  a  sol- 
i  the  light  dragoons,  London,  and  served  four  months  before 
his  ivlease  was  procured.  He  officiated  later  as  a  Unitarian  clergy- 
man, and  afterward  as  the  secretary  to  the  governor  of  Malta. 

poetic  writings  have  great  variety  in  style  and  charactei. 
The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner  is  a  wonderful  poem,  preternatural 
and  fascinating.     There  is  nothing  at  all  resembling  it  in  literature. 

Clay,  Henry,  an  American  statesman,  born  in  Virginia  in  1777, 
and  died  at  Washington  in  1852.  He  was  prominent  in  politics  for 
filly  years,  distinguishing  himself  in  every  position  which  he 
o  .  upied. 

Efa  was  sent  to  the  Legislature  of  Kentucky,  was  in  the  United 
States  Senate,  was  the  American  Minister  to  Ghent,  etc. 

Clark,  James  G.,  was  born  in  Oswego  county,  N.  Y.,  in  1830. 
He  has  the  rare  gift  of  wedding  his  poetry  to  most  beautiful  music, 
and,  also,  of  giving  it  expression  in  song.  As  a  poet,  he  is  noted 
for  the  beauty  and  perfection  of  his  rhythm;  as  a  composer,  for  the 
wonderful  adaptation  of  the  music  to  the  sentiment,  and  as  a  bal- 
lad singer,  he  has,  probably,  no  superior. 

Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  was  born  in  Burlington,  New  Jersey, 
but  lived  nearly  all  his  life  in  New  York.  He  was  for  a  short  time 
to  early  life  a  sailor,  and  was  thereby  enabled  to  paint  his  sea-scenes 
as  none  but  a  genuine  tar  could  do.  He  also  delineated  Indian 
character  and  habits  with  wonderful  fidelity.  He  wrote  many 
novels,  sketches  of  European  character,  etc.,  etc 


/  \       7S/.S  /v  Elocution.  423 

Dk  Krottt,  II  -,  a  lady  of  i  tl  and  checkered  for- 

i  perfect  sight,  and  in  one  brief  month  was  a  bride, 
a  widow  and  was  blind.  She  has  written  much  for  magaz 
newspapers,  etc.,  and  a  few  years  since  published  a  volume  which 
has  had  a  very  large  sale.  A  juvenile  story  of  rare  interest  —  Little 
Jakey — is  BOW  in  press.  For  more  than  twenty  years  the  darkness 
of  night  has  shrouded  bar  vision,  but  in  that  time  she  has  performed 
a  herculean  labor  in  literature,  studying  Latin  as  a  pastime  and  read- 
ing Cicero's  orations  with  the  help  of  an  amanuensis. 

De  Millk,  James,  author  of  the  Dodge  Club,  or  Italy  !n 
MDCCCLXIV,  a  humorous  satire  published  by  Harper  Brothers. 

De  Qcincey,  THOMAS,  was  born  at  Manchester,  England,  in  1786, 
and  was  educated  at  Eaton  and  Oxford. 

Disraeli,  Right  Hon.  Benjamin,  born  in  London  in  the  year  1805. 
Has  mingled  much  in  politics,  and  as  a  speaker  is  noted  for  his  sar- 
castic eloquence. 

Dickens,  Charles,  is  the  son  of  a  paymaster  in  the  Navy  Depart- 
ment. England,  and  was  born  at  Landport,  Portsmouth,  in  1812. 
In  early  life  he  was  a  Parliamentary  reporter,  writing,  in  addition, 
sketches  for  the  Morning  Chronicle,  Monthly  Magazine,  etc.,  under 
the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Boz."  His  Pickwick  Papers  have  been  trans- 
lated in  many  languages,  and  read  almost  the  world  over.  He  has 
visited  America  twice;  the  last  time,  in  1867,  he  gave  a  tour  of 
"Readings"  through  the  country.  His  elocution  is  by  no  means 
perfect,  but  his  facial  expression  and  gestures  are  inimitable.  He  is 
at  the  head  of  novelists  in  England. 

Ferkier,  Mart,  an  English  writer,  born  in  1782;  died  in  1854. 

Fern.  Fanny    Sarah  Pay  son  Willis),  was  born  in  Portland 
I'll.      Set  father  removed  to  Boston  in  1817,  and  became  the  <  di- 
tor  of  the  "  Recorder  "  an  J  the  "Youth's  Companion."     She  was 
educated   at   Hartford,  at  the  celebrated   seminary  of  Catharine 
Beecher.     Harriet  Beeoher  was  at  that  time  a  teacher  in  t 

B  after  leaving  school,  Miss  Willis  was  married  to  Mr.  Eldridge, 


42*  CUTION. 

of  Boston ;  but  in  a  few  years  she  found  herself  a  widow,  and  de- 
.t  upon  her  own  exertion  orL     In  1861  her  literary 

life  began.     Pot  iie  real  name  of  the  author  of  the 

-.'little  sk  papers  was 

not  known;  seventy  thousand  copies  of  1  s  were  sold  in 

in  this  country  alone,  and  shortly  afterward  there  were  found  thirty- 
two  thousand  purchasers  for  Little  Ferns.  Ruth  Hall  and  Rose 
Clark  soon  followed,  and  our  author  was  in  a  full  tide  of 

In  1856.  Fanny  Fern  was  married  to  James  Part.-n.  the  populai 
biographer.      For   the   last   fifteen   years  she  has  written  for  the 
failing  to  furnish  the  stipulated  artiele 
each  week. 

Grouon,  John  B.,  a  celebrated  temperance  orator.  No  man  in  the 
country  is  able  to  draw  such  crowds  of  people  to  his  lectures,  and 
for  years  his  popularity  has  been  unabated. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  was  born  at  Putney,  in  Surry,  Eng.  He  wrote 
the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  and  other  historical 
works.  He  died  at  the  house  of  Lord  Sheffield,  in  London,  Jan. 
16,   IT 

Halleck,  Fit7-  an  American  poet,  who  died  in  1868.     He 

was  associated  with  his  friend,  J.  Rodman  Drake,  in  writing  a  series 
of  sprightly  and  somewhat  satirical  poems,  entitled  "The  Croak- 
ers," which  attracted  considerable  attention  in  the  literary  world 
Marco  Bozzaris,  a  martial  lyric,  is  undoubtedly  his  best  production. 

Hamilton,  Gail.  The  real  name  of  this  racy  writer  is  Abigail 
Dodge,  and  her  home  is  at  Hamilton,  Mass.  She  has  written  much 
for  the  Atlantic  and  other  magazines,  and  has  published  several  vol- 
umes, which  have  been  eagerly  read  by  thousands  of  people. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  was  noted  for  the  quaintness  of  his 
writings  and  the  purity  of  his  language.  He  wrote  much  for  the 
Atlantic  Monthly  and  other  periodicals. 

Hazlitt,  William,  was  first  a  painter,  but,  failing  of  success  in 
art,  he  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  He  was  a  native  of  Eng- 
land, and  died  in  London  in  1830. 


425 

Hem  asp,  Fkucia  (Felicia  Dorothea  Browne),  was  bom  at  L 

aul,  on  the  26th  of  September,  17in.    Bhe  published  her 
i.     This  chiMish  attempt  el  is  not  suc- 

cessful, but  our  young  author  <li«l  not  despair,  an  1  the  next  publi- 
cation placed  her  upon  a  firm  literary  footing.  In  1812  she  was 
married  to  Captain  Element;  but  the  Qtlioo  was  far  from  being  a 
happy  one,  and  in  1818  he  removed  to  Italy,  while  his  wife  remained 
in  England,  and  they  never  met  again.  Mrs.  Hemansdied  May  10 
1835,  and  was  buried  at  St.  Ann's  church,  Dublin. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  was  born  in  Portland,  Me.,  in  1800. 
He  was  professor  of  anatomy  and  physiology  at  Harvard  for  many 
years.  His  poetry  sparkles  with  humor  and  his  prose  is  quaint  and 
witty.  He  has  contributed  for  the  Atlantic  Monthly  and  for  various 
periodicals,  and  is  much  admired  both  by  American  and  English 
read.-- 

IT roo,  Victor,  a  French  writer  of  great  dramatic  power,  has 
written  a  whole  library  of  books. 

Hoon,  TnoMAS,  who  was  born  in  1798,  and  who  died  in  1845,  was 

chiefly  known  as  a  comic  writer  and  satirist,  but  he  excelled  also  in 

Dental  and  pathetic  poetry,  thus  showing  a  versatility  of  talent 

m  seen.     Hood's  works  are  published  in  four  volumes:  Putins, 

m  of  Wit  and  Humor,  Hood's  Own,  or  Laughter  from  Year  to 

Year,  and  Whims  and  Oddities  in  Prose  and  Verse. 

Irvino,  Washington.     This  much  admired  American  writer  was 

ork  in  1783.     He  wrote  voluminously.     Books  upon 

',  history  and   romance  poured  from   his  pen.      Sal 

interest  in  studying  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  original  Dutch 

inhabitants  of  New  York.     The   Tappet)  !<dl<>w  and 

the  EaatakiDi   are  mad.-  ebeeieel  be  his  tale  of  Rip  Van  Winkle. 

itieed  end  has  been  successfully  played  In 

.  the   inin.  <>n  taking  the  | 

old,  Dutch  sleeper.     Irving  was  very  popular  i.  and 

l>een  translated  into  many  languages.     His  house  at 

Sunnyside.  where  he  lived  for  many  years  and  where  he  died,  can  be 

Been  by  travelers  over  th*»  Hudson  River  Railroad,  or  from  the  steam- 


426  EZMBCISBB  W  StOCUfTOlT, 

ers  which  ply  up  and  down  the  river.  It  is  a  low  cottage,  covered 
with  ivy,  which  was  brought,  originally,  from  Abbey,  and 

planted  by  the  master's  own  hand.  Irving  is  buried  in  the  cem- 
etery at  Tai  rytown,  and  a  simple  stone,  a  few  feet  in  height,  with 
the  brief  inscription  of  his  name  and  age,  marks  the  spot 

Jefferson,  Thomas,  a  distinguished  American  statesman,  during 
the  period  of  the  Revolution,  author  of  the  Declaration  of  In<l 
ence,  and  third  President  of  the  United  States. 

Knowles,  James  Sherioan,  an  English  dramatic  writer,  born  in 
I  lis  first  play  of  Caius  Gracchus  was  performed  in  1815. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadswortii,  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine, 
in  1807.  lie  was  professor  of  modern  languages  and  belle  lettres 
at  Harvard  University  for  many  years.  He  resides  at  Cambridge, 
near  Boston,  and  occupies  a  house  which  was  originally  Washing- 
ton's headquarters.  Mr.  L.  has  written  much  poetry,  and  some 
prose,  and  his  translation  of  Dante  throws  a  classic  halo  around  his 
name.  He  visited  Europe  in  1868,  returning  in  1869.  The  poet 
was  enthusiastically  received  by  the  English  people.  His  poetry  is 
not  startling,  but  is  quaint  and  beautiful 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  1819. 
He  is  now  professor  of  modern  language,  rhetoric,  etc.,  at  Harvard 
University.  As  a  humorist,  satirist,  or  essayist,  he  is  deservedly 
popular. 

Lowell,  Robert,  a  writer  of  good  repute,  a  member  of  the  cele- 
brated family  by  this  name. 

Lamb,  Charles,  a  poet  and  essayist,  born  in  London,  February 
11,  1775.  His  father  was  in  humble  circumstances,  and  Charles 
was  presented  with  a  scholarship  in  Christ's  Hospital.  There  was  a 
taint  of  insanity  in  the  family,  and  the  poet  himself  was  once  con- 
fined for  a  few  weeks  in  an  asylum  at  Hoxton.  His  sister  Mary 
was  insane  at  intervals,  and  he  devoted  his  life  to  her  comfort  and 
protection.  In  her  lucid  intervals,  they  wrote  and  published  some 
volumes  conjointly.  His  style  is  quaint  and  fanciful.  He  died  in 
ltf34,  and  his  poor  sister  survived  him  only  three  years. 


&XMBCMMM  IH  SlOOVTH  427 

Macailw,  Tims.  Babingt.  bom  at  Lei- 

cestershire in  1800,  and  died  at  Kensington  in  I860.     Ha  wrote  a 

OTJ  of  England,  which  is  deservedly  popnlar.      His  Lays  of 

have   been    greatly   admired    by  lovers  of  e 
ry.     He  displayed  brilliant  powers,  both  in  politics  and  litera- 

Motherwell,  William,  a  native  of  Glasgow,  Scotland,  born  in 
1797.  He  assisted  Hogg  in  editing  the  works  of  Burns.  He  died 
ruddenly,  at  the  age  of  thirty-eight. 

Procter,  Bryan,  known  in  the  reading  world  by  the  name  of 
Barry  Cornwall.  He  published  a  small  volume  of  dramatic  scenes, 
in  1815.     His  style  is  elegant  and  graceful. 

Procter,  Adelaide  Annb,  the  author  of  Legends  and  Lyrics,  pub- 
lished in  1858.  She  was  a  daughter  of  Barry  Cornwall,  and  a 
native  of  England. 

Proctor,  Edna  Dean,  was  born  in  New  Hampshire,  but  of  late 
years  has  made  her  residence  in  Brooklyn.  Her  war  poems  were 
largely   circulated  in  the  newspapers  of  the  time. 

Pikrpont,  Rev.  John,  born  at  Litchfield,  Connecticut,  and  died 
in  18G6.  He  wrote  much  upon  reform,  and  was  noted  for  his  radi- 
cal vi 

Pkkcivai.,  James  Gates,  was  born  in  Kensington  parish,  in  the 
lown  of  Berlin,  Connecticut,  September  15,  1795.  As  soon  as  the 
alphabet  was  mastered,  he  seemed  to  have  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
know  rer  engaging  in  play  with  his  mates,  hut  always  por- 

ver  books  or  studying  nature.     We  find  the  boy  invoking  the 
mu-H*  with  passionate  pleadings,  at  the  age  of  fourteen  or  fifr* 
writing  sometimes  in  smooth,  beautiful   rhythm,  and    then  again 
deecen-linL'  to  a  childish  doggerel.     In  1811   I  Col- 

a  member  of  the  Freshman's  class,  and  in  due 
tin-  course  of  study  in  that  institution.     Alter  leav- 
ing college  he  studied  medicine,  but  bis  practice  in  tin-  profession 
was  limited   to  a  few  days.     A  malignant   fever  took   away  several 
of  his  patients,  and,   shrinking  from   the  responsibility  of  holding 


428  EMI  UT  SLC 

human  lives  in  his  hands,  our  young  physician  closed  his  saddlt 

in  business  and 
unhappy  in  mind,  sometimes  even  attemj  iction.     At 

the  little  village  of  Hazel  Green,  Wisconsin,  the   poor  poet  lies 
buried,  and  no  stone  marks  his  grave. 

Pos,  Edoar  Allan.  This  strange,  reckless  son  of  genius  first 
saw  the  light  in  Baltimore,  in  1811.  He  died  in  a  hospital  in  his 
native  city,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-eight. 

Read,  Thomas  Buchanan,  is  justly  celebrated  both  as  a  painter 
I  poet     He  was  born  in  Chester  county,  Pennsylvania,  in 

1822. 

Rusk  irt  critic,  was  born  in  London,  in  1809.    The  work, 

"Modern  Painters,  by  an  Oxford  Graduate,"  was  published  when 
the  author  was  but  t  ;r  years  of  age.     Mr.  Ruskin  is  the 

moving  sprit  of  the  Pre- Raphael  school  of  artists. 

Saxb,  John  G.,  is  an  American  writer  of  humorous  poetry.  He 
has  also  made  some  fine  translations  from  the  dead  languages.  He 
was  born  in  1815. 

Schknck,  Ellen,  was  a  young  lady  of  rare  scholarship  and  prom- 
ise, a  native  of  Fulton,  New  York.  She  graduated  at  the  FaUey 
Seminary,  in  that  village,  in  1854.  She  wrote  many  poems  which 
gave  a  glimmering  of  what  her  capabilities  might  be ;  but  the  icy 
finger  of  consumption  was  laid  upon  her,  and  she  died  when 
scarcely  twenty  years  of  age. 

Scott,   Sir   Walter,    was  born   in   Edinburgh,   on   the   15th   ot 
it,  1771.     He  had  the  rare  gift  of  writing  poetry  and  prose 
with  equal  skill     He  inaugurated  a  style  of  historic  romance  and 
poetry  which  has  had  many  imitators.     He  died  in  1832. 

Shakspeare,  William,  born  at  Stratford  on  Avon,  England.  As 
a  dramatic  writer,  he  has  never  been  equalled  ;  and  the  versatility 
of  his  knowledge  and  his  skill  in  delineation  has  been  the  wonder 
of  the  world  for  a  century  past 

Shelley  Percy  Byssiie,  the  son  of  a  baronet  of  England,  Sir 
Timothy   Shelley,  of   Castle  Garring;    was   born    August  4,   1792. 


I  EXERCISES  IN  ELO<  429 

Qe  yet  a  school  boy,  he  seemed  to  have  an  equal  attachment  for 
'aphysics,  and  DC  ofMl  wi: 

evidence  of  the  strange  union.    I  :ns  arc  sometimes  grandly 

beautiful,  sometimes  ghastly  repulsive.    Be  met  an  accidental  death, 
>wning,  off  the  coast  of  Italy. 

Sioocrxev,  Lydia  Huntley,  was  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut, 
1.  1791.  At  the  age  of  eight  years,  the  child  tried  her  hand 
at  story  writing.  For  many  years  she  was  a  very  popular  tc 
in  the  city  of  Hartford,  establishing  her  reputation  as  a  pioneer 
educator.  The  volume  entitled  Pieces  in  Prose  and  Verse,  was 
published  in  1815.     In  1819  she  was  married  to  U  I  Sig- 

ourney,  a  merchant  of  the  town  where  the  school  was  established 
The  la3t  words  she  wrote  w 

44  Heaven's  peace  be  with  you  all  I 
Farewell!  Farewell  1" 
She  died  in  18G6. 

SournEY,  Robert,  poet-laureate  of  England,  was  born  August  12, 
1771.  at  Bristol.  His  first  wife,  a  sister  of  the  wife  of  Ooleridge, 
in  1834,  and  in  a  year  and  a  half  afterward,  he  was  married 
to  his  life-long  friend,  Caroline  Anne  Bowles.  During  the  Last  few 
I  of  his  life  the  poor  poet's  mind  was  clouded,  and  his  friends 
could  scarcely  regret  his  death.  He  died  in  1843,  and  was  buried 
in  the  church  yard  of  Crosthwaite. 

SouTnEY,  Car  fl  BOWLO,  was  justly  celebrated,  both  as 

a  poet  and  story  writer.     She  contributed  for  Blackwood's  || 

>r  ni.iny  years,  and  the  si.  :  wards  published  in 

e  was  married  to  the  poet, 
Be   had  written   more    than    twelve  hundred  letters  to  her, 
try  and  other  subjects.     After  the  death  of  her  husband, 
years  of  her  life  in  lb  meat. 

we,    Harriet    Beechkr.   was  born   in  Connecticut,  in    1 
he,  with  the  somewhat  numerous  family  of  Beechers,  inherj 
?ove  for  piety,  freedom,  etc.,  from  her  stanch  New  England  ai 
tors.     She  has  written  nmeh.  and  her  works  | 
into  }•  ages.  She  v.  .  life  asso- 

ciated with  -   Catharine  Beecher,  in  conducting  a  school  for 


430  Kzwmciaaa  i.\  Elocution. 

young  ladies,  at  Hartford,  Connecticut  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  was 
published  in  1852,  and  nothing  she  has  since  written  has  been  so 
ex  ten  si  v  fly  read. 

sburn,   Algernon  Charles,  author  of  the  Greek   tragedy, 
Atalanta  in  Calydon,  etc 

Taylor,  Bayard,  has  written  books  of  travel,  romance  and  poetry. 
He  has  been  engaged  much  as  a  public  lecturer.  He  was  born  in 
1824. 

Taylor,  Benjamin  F.,  a  native  of  Lowville,  N.  Y. ;  is  a  populai 
writer  and  lecturer. 

Tilton,  Theodore,  a  well  known  reformer,  editor  of  the  Inde- 
pendent 

Trowbridqe,  J.  T.     His  n&m  de  plume,  when   writing  juvenile 
stories,  is  Father  Brighthopes.     Darius  Green  and  his  Flying  Ma- 
chine, inimitable  in  its  rollicking  humor,  was  written  for  Our  Young 
Folks,  March,  1866  ;  and   The  Vagabonds  has  justly  achieved  a 
popularity. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  the  present  poet-laureate  of  England,  the  sou 
of  a  Lincolnshire  clergyman,  was  born  in  1810.  He  gave  promise 
of  superior  talent  in  youth,  taking  a  prize  for  a  poem  while  still  an 
undergraduate.  He  is  known  and  loved  as  much  in  America  as  in 
England.  He  writes  carefully,  reviewing  and  correcting  his  proofs 
many  times. 

Tobin,  John,  wrote  many  plays,  which  were  rejected  by  mana- 
gers ;  the  Honeymoon  being  the  first  production  of  his  pen  which 
was  accepted.  The  play  has  been,  and  still  is,  very  popular,  but 
the  poor  writer  died  without  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  performed 
Re  was  born  at  Salisbury,  in  the  year  1770,  ami  died  in  1804. 

Wilson,  Force  ythe,  an  American  poet,  who  died  in  1866. 

A'ebstkr,  Daniel,  celebrated  as  a  statesman  and  orator. 


IB  36885 


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